


Dreamers in the Fade

by citizenblue



Series: In Death, Solace [1]
Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2018-07-10 22:23:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7010761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/citizenblue/pseuds/citizenblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three heroes and the women who loved them. A beginning, a middle, and an end. The Inquisitor, the Champion, and the Warden are different in many ways. The Warden fights because she must; it has become her reluctant duty. The Champion fights in order to provide, and though she has failed in many ways, she still has those she continues to care for. The Inquisitor fights for the excitement. The adrenaline. She fights because this is indeed the greatest fight of her life. These three women are different in many ways, and they love in their own ways. The threat of an ancient monster looms, but each has their own story, and their words will not be drowned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dreamers in the Fade

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for both Here Lies the Abyss and Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts. Also, spoilers for everything labelled "Dragon Age" that comes before. This includes the DLC of the first two games, but not the DLC of DA:I. Also, people swear. But if you've played the games, you should already know that. Unless, for some reason, you played the games on mute, but whatever floats your boat, man. And there are several mild to moderate mature scenes. Mostly suggestive.
> 
> I had many reasons for wanting to write this (included in the end notes), but mostly I want to read more f!Adaar/Cassandra, and this is partly my little roundabout way of getting more pens and keyboards onto this damn ship. I do take creative liberties with canon, but mostly with DA:I, because I thought this would be an interesting way to interpret events. But most importantly, in true Bioware fashion, there will be tragedy. Followed by a variety of humorous chasers, of course..
> 
> As I write this, though (because I'm taking a break to write this note), who knows how this will all turn out. Maybe I should just stick to patter songs.

**OVERTURE**

The damn Wounded Coast. Bleak even before the mage rebellion and Ferelden's Blight. The Tal-Vashoth held the blade to the Hero of Ferelden's throat.

“Yes, you'll do,” Mahariel said.

Adaar tightened her grip on the blade. “You seem remarkably calm for a dead woman.”

“I have been a dead woman for nearly ten years. I've had practice.” Mahariel sheathed her knives. “But I would be very careful if I were you.”

Adaar followed Mahariel's gesture and looked down towards her feet. Damn. When had she… Adaar hadn't even noticed. The flask of gaatlok rested beneath Mahriel's right foot, precariously intact under the elf's weight. Damn elves. Damn wardens. Conniving at every turn.

“I was starting to lose hope,” Mahariel said. “I was beginning to believe that not a single one of you would even find me.”

“You hired me to kill you.”

“Of course.”

“Why? Is this some sort of ridiculous Grey Warden suicide plot?”

“Don't be ridiculous. This was a test.”

“Sweet Maker, a test? I don't like being jerked around.”

“Neither do I.” Mahariel had begun to become impatient with the exchange. And with the sword that still yet pricked the soft of her throat. “Travel with me. I am in need of agents who can act as I expand my… reach. Bring those you trust, but keep them in the dark.”

“So the Hero of Ferelden really is in hiding?”

“I am not cowering, Vashoth. The world is constantly on the brink of end, even if its inhabitants remain unaware. Regardless. I will see to it that you are well compensated. I killed an archedemon with only a handful of men to call my army. Feats of ridiculous bravery tend to be strangely lucrative.”

“If I'm going to do this, I __better__ get paid.”

The Hero had chosen well. Adaar is many things, but she is not one to break her word. Besides. It pays to have the Hero of Ferelden in your debt. From that day forth, Adaar spoke only of an elvish benefactor, lying even to Shokrakar when describing a former Vint slave on the run. Shokrakar had recognized the lie, of course, but as long as the coin flowed, the oversized woman had no problem playing up her hatred of Tevinters.

She thought, for a moment, she might have said something to the Seeker, though. The sharp human stared down on the horned woman and demanded to know why a Free Marcher Vashoth had been at the Conclave at all. It would have been interesting to bear witness to the Seeker's reaction. ( _You have been hired by the Hero of Ferelden? You who are little more than a barbarian?_ )

She kept her word, though. Not a single word left her tongue.

She again considered spilling the secret once her innocence had been cemented and she had become branded the Herald of _blighted_ Andraste. If only to spite the elf. ( _The Herald of Andraste? I am blasphemy in the flesh._ )

But then Sister Leliana had approached her, and she cursed Mahariel as she pursed her lips. The Nightingale pulled her aside into the shadows of Haven's chantry, asking her to look into the disappearance of the Grey Wardens. Adaar feigned ignorance. pretending she knows little of Wardens. She pretended that she had only heard the legends that would sometimes circulate through the taverns whenever Fereldan minstrels would find their way into the Free Marches and its many shitty taverns. Lyrics that told the tale of the Hero of Ferelden…

…How she had faced an Archdemon whilst riding upon the back of the last griffin, once lost but now tamed. How the bastard heir, the only other of Fereldan's Wardens had loved her, and what a grand romantic adventure it had been as they faced the Fifth Blight together. How the soul of the Old God, the Archedemon, had been sucked into the unborn child of a wildling apostate…

Adaar feigned ignorance, but she knew that only the last is true. Leliana mentioned Blackwall and the rumors regarding a lone Warden aiding locals just south of Redcliffe, and Adaar could see the hope and fear swirling down through the bard's eyes. Because perhaps Mahariel is only in hiding. And perhaps Mahariel…

No. This was nothing more than a blind hope.

Still, the Nightingale could not help herself, and she urged the Herald of Andraste to meet with this mysterious. Cassandra and Cullen and Josephine. They had brushed her aside on this matter time and time again:

"The Champion of Kirkwall has an intimate knowledge of this conflict," Cassandra had said, when their first sweep for the Hero had proved fruitless. "This is not a Blight. We do not need a Warden. We need Hawke."

"You have always had a soft spot for the Grey Wardens," Cullen had added, but his voice trailed off into a whisper.

Josephine had only offered a weak smile; "I can send another missive to Weisshaupt," she had as though they both didn't know that this was only a platitude meant to soothe Leliana into dropping the matter entirely.

Adaar did not know where the Hero of Ferelden had gone, but she knew that the elf was most definitely not in the Hinterlands. But Blackwall could at least still prove to be useful. She might as well have tried to pry information out of the wandering Warden.

She hadn't been paid her full sum yet, after all, and if she hadn't been paid yet, neither had Shokrakar.

“You'll get paid after the Conclave,” Mahariel had said. “You'll act as a peacekeeper between the mages and Templars.”

“Really. The Conclave. In case you haven't noticed, I have horns.”

“A member of the Orlesion court… A friend… Owes me a favor. She only asked that I procure someone both trustworthy and intimidating.”

“I'm flattered. Trustworthy? I nearly killed you.”

“Hardly, lethallan,” Mahariel had said, gazing upon Adaar with an expression of familiarity. “And we know each other well enough, now.”

“I suppose I do owe you for giving me a good fight.” Then, as she looked down at the elf: “The Conclave might be trouble, but I doubt it'll go up in flames quite like Kirkwall. Don't worry. I'll watch over your little human.”

“She cannot know.”

“I get it. Just make sure I get paid.”

And Adaar had been right. The Conclave did not go up in flames. An apostate abomination did not rig the site to blow. No. Because that have would been too easy. The damn sky had to go and split open. The sky started to shit actual demons down all throughout Thedas, and she __still__ hadn't been paid.

Finding Blackwall would be the first step in rectifying that little problem. Not that fighting demons hadn't been fun in and of itself. The sharp human had begun to pique her interest, too…

Leliana watched as Adaar made her way out of the Chantry, flanked by Cassandra who had taken to remaining plastered to the Vashoth's side, silent and ever-vigilant in her self-appointed position as bodyguard to the Herald of Andraste.

“Think she can live up to becoming the hero of this story?” Varric said, interrupting Leliana's thoughts.

Before she could stop herself: “She is not at all like Mahariel.”

“Mahariel? Oh. You mean the Hero of Ferelden. You'll have to tell me the story later. After the Swords & Shields debacle, I'm itching for new ideas.” He smiled up at her, trying to break the woman out of the snare of her own thoughts. “She's not like Hawke either. But we all have our own way of getting by, don't we?”

He hadn't told them, either, that he knew __exactly__ where the Champion of Kirkwall had gone. That Hawke had recently crossed into Rialto Bay, her sword gathering salt beside barrels of molasses and lyrium. That the great Champion of Kirkwall, overgrown child that she was, hung from towering masts as though posing for a storybook, armed with nothing more than a dagger strapped to her leg.

Truthfully, though, he had really said all that he had needed to say.

Seeker Pentaghast had only needed to read between the lines.

* * *

 

**I.**

**THE NIGHTINGALE'S STORY**

"That's him?" Alistair looked the boy up and down, squinting through the bright unadultered sunlight beating down onto Skyhold's gardens. "I thought he'd look, I don't know, more demonic. Tentacles and fiery breath."

Leliana crossed her arms. "He can hear you, you know. He is only three and a half feet away."

"He __is__ a normal boy, Alistair." Morrigan stepped ever so subtly between Kieran and his father, ignoring Leliana altogether.

"Uh huh," Alistair said. "Right. And what does he know of... how he was made?"

"He knows his father was a good man. I-I thought you deserved that much."

"He's changed you," Alistair said.

"Don't be absurd."

Leliana rolled her eyes, dreadfully impatient with the exchange. None of this mattered. Not when... Mahariel had said nothing of the Calling, but if what Alistair said was true... If the Calling had come early... Mahariel... Mahariel should have said something. Anything. She might not have gone to Justinia. She might not have become the Left Hand of the Divine. But at least... She would have Mahariel.

Alistair continued to deflect. "Have they ever met?"

"You're asking me if I know where she is."

"Yes."

Leliana snapped her head back towards the pair, her interest suddenly piqued.

"No. I went to Ferelden, but..."

"You tried to find her?" Alistair said.

"Of course, I did." She turned her head, and her eyes narrowed as she glared into Leliana's hardened eyes. "But I shouldn't have had to. I consider her to be a good friend. My closest friend. And I find this entire situation entirely distasteful. I will not accept that she is lost to us."

"I have not given up on her." Leliana counted the ways she could ruin Morrigan. "I have never given up on her."

The apostate snorted. "Oh really? Is that right? Then what exactly are you doing here? Because right now she's out there alone. She shouldn't be alone."

"You think you could have done better?"

" _Yes_."

Leliana only needed to raise a single finger. She only needed to rub at the corner of her brow. The signal would be given and Morrigan would be dead. An easy enough task. Pin it on the Venatori. Not a single soul would know any better. Leliana's finger twitched as she seethed. She wouldn't. Couldn't. Mahariel had already lost so much. Leliana had been her love, but Morrigan had been her comrade. Her friend. A sister, almost. She would not have Mahariel lose them both.

And perhaps...

Perhaps Morrigan was right.

"Doesn't matter. This is for the better," Alistair said. His eyes followed the boy who had left to play with the spirit. Cole, was it?

"How can you say that?" Leliana demanded.

"She walks a dark path," he said.

"She walks a dark path on your account." Leliana turned her anger towards Alistair instead, her words bursting into the air before even Morrigan could interject. "She bears the weight of your inaction. Do you think she di not suffer? She sacrificed her soul for a world she did not love. You were content to follow."

"Normally, I'd have some smarting quip," Morrigan said with a smile. "But it seems Leliana has grown a set of fangs in my absence.”

Alistair, however, remained steadfast, and his voice took on his trademark dismissive tone. "Yes, yes, I'm quite aware. The Hero of Ferelden has always been willing to make difficult decisions when I could not. I knew this about her the moment I met her. So did Duncan. But we were lucky during the Blight. There is a fine line between sacrifice and insanity."

"You... you truly believe Mahariel would aid Clarel," Leliana said.

"She walks a dark path," Alistair said again, his frustration getting the better of him. "And you have little idea as to what it has been like to have the Calling singing in your ear every minute of the day. You have not been with her through her worst."

"Her worst?" The realization began to dawn upon Leliana. "You have seen her. Recently."

He sighed. "Recently, yes I suppose, but not recently enough."

"All this time. You knew."

Suddenly, Leliana very much understood Cassandra's desire to throw Varric to a pack of Mabari hounds. She'd find big dogs for Alistair. And he would squeal.

"You'll have to be a tad more specific. I know a lot of things."

"The Calling. Where she was. Why she left..."

She remembered. Mahariel had always been plagued by the nightmares, but with the Archdemon slain, they had finally begun to simmer down into a light nuisance. Then, just as suddenly, they returned. A feverish boil. Hot, violent tar. As always, Mahariel had shrugged, bluntly (and with little decorum) telling Leliana off for worrying far too much.

("I'm Dalish," she had said, as though it made a single shred of difference. "We don't succumb so easily to little dreams.")

But in those brief moments, those brief moments between sleep and the waking world, she would hear Mahariel mutter. "Not now," she would say. "Too early," she would whisper. "Not yet not yet not yet." And Leliana would see the fear etched across her face beneath the ink. Not bodily fear. Not fear of some great beast. No. Fear that something sacred would soon be lost. When the nightmares had become their very worst, Mahariel had left.

One last passionate night (though she hadn't known it would be their last). One last story told (Mahariel had begged her, almost, to hear once more of hunters and starry tears spread across the night sky). And finally, one last blunt quip from her lips, unashamedly sincere, clear and crisp as winter water: a statement of love that could never be so diminished to be called something as weak as a confession (Mahariel, though small and quick and lithe, had always emanated strength).

Before the sun could kiss the horizon, the Hero of Ferelden had already left. If she had bid Leliana goodbye, she had done it only while the bard slept.

Mahariel could never quite manage farewells. Not since Tamlen had been left behind. Not since Mahariel herself had run a blade through Tamlen's gut, the blight sickness rampant through his veins.

Leliana could only guess where Mahariel had gone. Not long after, the Champion of Kirkwall disappeared as well. The Breach opened the sky, and it swallowed Divine Justinia and the Conclave whole. She becomes consumed with anger because Justinia had died and her work had meant nothing and she might have at least searched for Mahariel with the benefit of her full attention. She might have been with her love through the Calling.

She rages and rages and becomes consumed until Adaar, ever stony, grabs her by the scruff of her neck and pulls her back from the edge. Reminds her. Of faith. When Adaar asks her, in passing, if she had known the Hero of Ferelden, she tells her that she had, and that in time she would once again join her love in her travels.

Pretend, at least, that all is well.

But she could not pretend any longer, not with Alistair standing before her with news that the Wardens had begun to hear the Calling, and that all sought to prepre for the impending doom

"I am asking now," Leliana said, and inwardly she smirked at Alistair's discomfort. "Tell me what I need to know.. At least tell me where you last saw her.”

"You really don't want to know."

" _Where_?"

"The Deep Roads, and as far as I know, she hasn't left.”

 

**THE SEEKER'S STORY**

Cassandra could not believe her ears. Her blood boiled with the mere suggestion, and yet… Adaar remained cool. Collected. Infuriatingly so.

“Is this really necessary? I should be with you at Adamant.”

“No.”

“Is that all you will say?”

“Yes.” Adaar set her jaw as she pulled the smaller map of Adamant out onto the table. But beneath Cassandra's glare she finally relented. “Cullen can keep the siege on for as long as possible. We'll leave Blackwall on the ramparts with Krem and the Chargers. With any luck they can pick up any Wardens with the sense to know nothing good can come of blood magic. Vivienne and Fiona--”

“--And who will be by __your__ side,” Cassandra snapped.

“The Iron Bull. Cole. Maybe Solas, too.”

“I thought you did not trust him. Will you not even consider--”

Adaar remained unreasonably calm, moving figures across the map. Under any other circumstance, it would have almost been comical to watch her attempt to delicately maneuver the little pieces of metal without knocking everything over.

“--No. If the Chargers will be there, so will Bull. Cole might have insight into what the Wardens are thinking, and Solas… is a stabilizing influence. On Cole at least.”

“You expect me to simply sit here and do nothing.”

“No.” Adaar continued to formulate the plan. The maneuvers. "I expect you to do your job.”

“If this is about what happened before...”

“ _It isn't_ ,” Adaar said and her cool demeanor finally broke. Even for only a single moment.

“You have to understand...”

“I don't want to talk about this.”

“Inquisitor...”

“No, you made it perfectly clear where you stand. There's nothing else to say.”

Cassandra wanted to strike the wall. She had, hadn't she? But that didn't mean… She should still march to Adamant. She should still stand by the Inquisitor's side. As she had always done. Since Haven:

It had been easy to blame Adaar, the country-less Vashoth and the Conclave's sole survivor. But when the would be Inquisitor had awoken in the cell, her wrists shackled, she had been altogether different from anything Cassandra had expected.

Adaar refused to utter a single word. Her face remained expressionless, and she only appraised the situation, the damp cell, with stoic eyes. It had been hours. Demons screamed. A storm raged above their heads, and still they had gotten nowhere.

So they took her to the Breach, and when the first wave of demons struck, Adaar reached for a sword. She crashed through the demons' ranks, and she dispatched each shade, systematically, with a calculated recklessness, her open swings demanding a wide berth. Maker, Adaar had nearly nicked herself with her own blade.

“Drop your weapon,” Cassandra said, the air sizzling with dissolved spirits. “Now.”

But a small smile had broken through Adaar's face, and when she spoke, her even voice echoed with the bite of adrenaline; “So I'm supposed to cower behind you? I'm an oxwoman. I don't think I'd fit.”

Cassandra narrowed her eyes. So she __does__ know words.

“Fine,” Adaar said, loosening her grip on the sword. “I suppose I'll breeathe on the demons to death. Or I'll rip them apart with my hands. That actually sounds like more fun anyway.” The sword clattered to the ground, and Adaar started towards what she assumed to be the Breach. _And_ what appeared to be yet another gaggle of demons. “This way right?”

She can't be serious.

But no. She's actually… Maker.

Cassandra grabbed the greatsword, running up to Adaar and thrusting the blade into her hands, a disgusted noise emanating from her throat. “I should remember you did not attempt to run.” She regarded the Vashoth. “At least you are finally speaking.”

“Now, Seeker. You don't need your questions.” Adaar smiled again, grinning wide as she had during the skirmish. She jabbed Cassandra in the ribs. “You'll learn more about me from watching me fight.”

“You enjoy making trouble, don't you?” Cassandra said as she made another disgusted noise.

They did not say much to each other again before their rendezvous with Varric and the apostate Solas. Cassandra had never seen Varric quite so speechless. She would never admit it, but she had also never been quite so pleased.

“You're so little,” Adaar said, grabbing Varric as though he were a jar and bringing him up to eye level. “Is that a crossbow?”

It took a moment for Varric to find his words. “Maker's breath, _e_ _ _veryone's__ little to you!” he exclaimed. “And __yes__ , this is a crossbow, now __put me down__! There are still demons falling out of the sky!”

“All right,” Adaar said, and she released Varric, sending him hurtling to the ground.

Varric turned to the Seeker. “You have the worst taste in prisoners.”

She swore, even now, that Adaar had stared at her then, and that there had been a slight glimmer in her eye as she regarded the way in which Cassandra attempted to stifle a laugh.

But it had been a long time since Haven. Everything between them continued to change. Twists and turns. Constant. A tempest. Cassandra could hardly keep up. She sighed, bowing her head as she leaned over the war table, too.

Adaar spoke. “Cullen will be organizing the siege, and you're right. Bull might still be… an unknown. I've met more than my fair share of Ben-Hassrath agents, and none were ever agreeable. But he has since proven his worth and I doubt he will abandon the fight against Corypheus to kill a Vashoth who has never even known the Qun. The the bulk of our forces will be assaulting Adamant. I need someone I do completely trust here. Someone who can command.”

A reasonable enough explanation. And yet, Cassandra could not shake the tight knot from her stomach. __Ever since__ … Adaar had become muted. Stoic. No more teasing. No more poking and prodding. No longer causing trouble. No longer… Maker, she missed it. All of it.

“I am sorry,” Cassandra said, quiet.

Adaar moved towards the door, all the pieces in place. “No, __I'm__ sorry. What I said. It wasn't fair.” She cast a backwards glance. A small placid smile. “I wish I could have been who you wanted me to be.”

 

**THE WARDEN'S STORY**

She had spent the first year away from Leliana entirely focused on the Deep Roads. She had left, of coruse, with the absolute intent to die, as all Grey Wardens do, fighting darkspawn. But then she had seen Oghren, who had apparently entertained the same idea. They had found Sigrun together. Then Nathaniel. Ferelden's Wardens, far more decentralized than that of Orlais, had for the most part, it seemed, embarked on their pilgramage to the Roads. Ferelden's ragtag operation of Wardens had been reborn.

They operated out of the Deep Roads, attempting, at the very least, to preserve the knowledge and rites that would undoubtedly prove useful in ending the inevitable Sixth Blight. Occasionally, she traveled the surface, if only to expand her operation's reach. Adaar had not been the first.

By the end of the second year, the Tevinter agent had found her, claiming to know the secret behind ending the Blight. All Blights. _Yes, it will require blood magic_ , he had said, _but you are Wardens and you understand true sacrifice_.

She had killed him before he could finish.

She had thought Clarel would do the same. Perhaps not.

As she stared up at Adamant, she did so with the sobering determination that she would be the one to end the Orlesian mage. By then, the fighting had already broken out and the keep door had already become shattered beneath the weight of the Inquisition's battering ram. Under the guise of a common Inquisition soldier, the Hero of Ferelden scaled Adamant's walls, reaching the battlements with ease.

The Inquisitor was hard to miss.

Surrounded by a horde of pride demons.

 _ _Of course__ _,_ Adaar would go after the biggest monster in the place, wouldn't she? Not a problem. The beast's no larger than an ogre, after all.

Mahariel sunk her daggers into the demon's chest, her small frame throwing the large beast onto its back. She slashed at the demon's throat before gouging its eyes.

“Damn.” The Iron Bull laughed. “I've never seen one of those go down like that before.”

But Alistair was quick to act. “I have,” he said, holding his sword to Mahariel's throat. “I hope you have a good explanation for being here.”

“Wardens take care of their own,” she replied, pushing the blade away.

“So you show up __now__? After all this time?”

“The Orlesian Wardens may have resorted the blood magic, but ours fled to the Deep Roads. __Someone__ had to stop them from needlessly killing themselves. And when Corypheus reappeared wielding elvhen magic?” She shook her head before turning to Adaar. “Morrigan is with you, yes? She will know more.”

Alistair continued toe regard the Hero of Ferelden with weary eyes. “So the Ferelden Wardens?”

“Investigating a cure for the Blight-Sickness. We'll make a paragon out of Oghren yet.” She laughed. Bitter. She had caught sight of the Champion of Kirwall earlier. “Not all of my charges turned out to be abject failures.”

Adaar interruped. Growling. Impatient. “I hate to interrupt this lovely reunion, but we have a demon army to stop. Anyone care to join?”

“Alistair. Stay here. I'll deal with Clarel.”

“But--”

“You know these men. You can organize the defectors. Clarel is mine. Warden-Commander to Warden-Commander. Don't worry. It's not as if we haven't killed an Archdemon before.”

He relaxed. “If you make me have sex with Morrigan again...”

“Only in your dreams, lethallan.”

They would sing songs of this, probably, for years to come. The Hero of Ferelden, the Champion of Kirkwall, and the Herald of Andraste. The three of them together. Climbing the battlements. Facing the wrath of a fledgling demon army together.

“Did you bring your coin with you?” Adaar asked Mahariel, as though demons hadn't continued to endlessly attack.

“I have a single soverign in my pocket. Will that do?”

“Maybe I'll start charging interest.” Then: “I've kept your human safe and sound. As collatoral, of course.”

Mahariel nodded her thanks. Nothing more, demon-army or no demon-army, needed to be said. She slipped around Adaar and Hawke, pulling in and out of the shadows, her feet finding purchase on the ground as they climb higher and higher.

The Archdemon reared its head.

Mahariel sighed. This wasn't how she wished Leliana to hear of her return.

 

**THE SLATTERN'S STORY**

Josephine and Cassandra both had choice words for Varric when he had suggested a game of Wicked Grace for “all those who the Inquisitor couldn't be bothered to bring along to Adamant.”

“Is now really the time?” Jospehine had said. “The Inquisitor is trapped in the Fade! Cullen is--”

“And what do you want me to do? Shoot arrows at the giant hole in the sky? Dorian and Morrigan are working on it. Sitting around and sulking at the problem isn't really going to do anything.”

Sera had thought it was a grand idea, on account of wanting to think about anything  _other_ than Adamant, Grey Wardens, and the Fade.

“Well, you're quite fit.”

“Flattery won't win you this hand, elfy.” Varric did not even bother to look up from his drink. “Though I've been told that my chest hair can be distracting.”

“Sera kicked Varric, throwing her toe square into his shin; “I don't mean you, idiot. I mean  _her_.”

Two words: “Shut up.”

A familiar inflection, a burnt heat, and more than enough reason to cause Varric's eyeballs to nearly pop straight into his mug. He could hear Sera whistle. He could see her attempt to smother a laugh, too. Damn that elf.

He should have run.

Shards of stray glass ricocheted off the wall beside Varric's head, spraying his cheek. Oh, shit. He braced himself as he caught glimpse of blue and white. And the leather-clad arm. Whipping yet another bottle towards his head. Sera caught the projectile before disappearing with her prize. She'd never turn down a drink, after all. Varric flashed a weak, half-hearted smile.

"It's good to see you again," he said.

But she paid him no heed; "Sweet Andraste's tits! What do you mean Hawke fell into a demon hole?"

"Well, there was this Archdemon..."

Oops. Shouldn't have said that. Isabela flung another bottle towards Varric, the glass shattering against the wall once again. Mead dribbled down the back of his shirt. Isabela simmered. Archdemon? A bloody Archdemon? She smashed another bottle, and Varric might have worried over collatoral damage, but the tavern had already cleared out, the patrons quietly slinking away from this strange woman's ire. Varric wished he had never sent Avaline the note at all. He could have delayed all this until Hawke's return, and at least then he would have only needed to simply throw Hawke at Isabela. Hawke would come back. Of course, she would come back. Hawke has a nasty habit of surviving. She'll survive.

Right?

"The Fade never stopped her before," he offered, attempting to placate himself now.

"Well, she never fell into the damn Fade before, now has she? The last time this happened, a couple of bloody Vint magisters started the bloody Blight! No, you're right, Varric. This is anything  _but_ an impossible situation!"

"She has you now," he argued. "That has to count for something.

Isabela turned away. She didn't want to think about it. About the Arishok. Anders. Orosino becoming a giant ball of mashed corpses. Or Meredith with all that red lyrium bursting out of her skin. She certainly didn't want to think of an idiot ancient magister and his pet Archdemon. "Why haven't any of you gone after her?"

"Uh, in case you haven't noticed, we're still fighting a war against the mother of all demon armies. And even if we weren't... Well, _you're_  the daughter of a Rivaini seer. Do  _you_  have any bright ideas?"

"Hawke would have come up with something already," Isabela said. "She would have already had us out of there by now. She'd have some stupid remark ready, too. Something about desire demons and big bloody boats."

Varric didn't reach out, for fear she might still stab his arm clean through with one of her daggers. "She'll come back," he said.

"She probably didn't even fall! That bitch probably leapt right into the Fade's fucking arsehole!" Isabela slumped against the bar. She whispered; "Of all the damn women in Thedas..."

"Rivaini. She'll come back," the dwarf said again.

“I had to hear it from Aveline,” she said, properly deflated now. “Do you have any idea how infuriating that is? 'Oh, by the way, Hawke just took on the fucking Grey Wardens in some mad Inquisition suicide plan, and now she appears to be physically trapped in the Fade.' She couldn't even be bothered to send a damn letter.”

“And what would you have done if she had?”

"I can't lose her, Varric," Isabela said, and she held her head back, away from Varric. He could very nearly see the tears precariously balanced atop her eyes. She did not blink. A vain attempt to dry the tears out before they could fall. "You should have never called for her. You knew she would come if you asked. You knew. Hasn't she been through enough?" The Rivaini turned her back to Varric, leaving him with a few parting words. "You might like to know. Merrill tagged along, too. Some nonsense about that bloody mirror."

Sweet silence settled back into the tavern, leaving Varric alone in a puddle of mead, ale, and broken glass.

One of Leliana's messengers, an elf from Crestwood, peeked her head through the door, gauging the safety in stepping into the warzone.

"Come on in," Varric muttered. "She's gone, now."

"A message for you, messere," she said, "from Kirkwall." She handed it over before scurrying away. She had one last message to deliver before the day was done. To Seeker Pentaghast. She wondered how her obituary would read: "Perished in the line of duty. Gloriously delivering letters to irate members of the Inquisition."

Varric turned the message over, immediately recognizing the Guard-Captain's seal and handwriting:

"I had to tell the slattern something. She pulled into port not long after Hawke left to join you, and she's been causing a ruckus ever since. I don't have the manpower to assign more guards to both the docks and the Hanged Man, so I'm sending her to you. I'd say I'm sorry but I've already spent a quarter of the year's sovereigns keeping her out of trouble. I figure I should at least warn you of her impending arrival, though. Have fun."

A good thought, Aveline. Just... Too little too late

 

**DREAMERS IN THE FADE**

Hawke swiveled her head around. Left. Then right. Then up. Or was up really down?

“If this is the afterlife,” she said, “the Chantry owes me a huge apology. This looks nothing like the Maker's bosom.”

She caught glimpse of Adaar who had already begun to survey their surroundings. The Inquisitor grunted when Solas began to chime in, providing a veritable tourist's guide to the Fade. Meanwhile, both Cole and the Iron Bull had apparently succumbed to their own little panic attacks.

Damn.

Hawke wished she could still have panic attacks from finding herself in the Fade.

Stumble into the Fade enough times, though, and… The whole place begins to lose its luster.  _Honestly, I feel more sorry for Varric's chest hair. Isabela is going to have a fit. She'll wax him bare if she has her way._

The Iron Bull stood fast, his axe firm in his hand. He had managed to get a hold of himself. Moderately so, at least. Cole, though, had begun to hyperventilate.

“I wonder if we'll find a desire demon,” Hawke said, breaking the relative silence and brokering a real conversation. She had sparked Cole's curiosity, at least, long enough to calm him by a hair. “Those are my favorites. The day they learn to wear clothes will be a sad day indeed. Those nipple clamps are just  _inspired_.”

Solas frowned. “As fascinating as this experience might be, this is hardly a  _joking_  matter. To walk physically through the Fade… The implications are staggering.”

“ _Dirthara-ma, len'alas lath'din_ ,” Mahariel snapped. “You are hardly the only one among us to have traveled the Fade.” She turned to Adaar, ignoring the mildly shocked expression that had passed over Solas's face. “In the real world the rifts were nearby. In the main hall.”

“Better than staying here,” Adaar said, nodding and leading the way.

Hawke quirked an eyebrow. “Leaving already? I come here so often I was thinking I should build a summer home.” She held her fingers up in the shape of a window, continuing her little speech to nobody in particular. “Put the living room here and I think we'll get a glimpse of this lovely green sunset. Do you think Isabela will move here with me?”

The Iron Bull brushed past the Champion. “Of all the humans, I think you terrify me the most.”

* * *

 

**II.**

**THE NIGHTINGALE'S STORY**

Merrill bristled under Solas's stare, his eyes regarding her vallaslin with a deep measure of disdain. And pity. He had answered her questions at first, regarding the Fade.

“Go bother Morrigan,” he had said, at last. “Perhaps she can benefit from your __expertise__ regarding the mirrors.”

But Leliana had already caught her eye. That… had to be her. Ever since Mahariel had become lost to their clan, she had clung to every story that had come out of Ferelden. Anything to hear of her one-time friend.

“You fought by Mahriel's side,” she said, surprising her.

“You must be Merrill,” said Leliana slowly.

“Yes, I thought you might want to – I don't know – talk.”

Leliana frowned. Cullen and Alistair had only recently sent word. The… siege hadn't gone as planned. The Inquisitor had fallen into the Fade with the Champion and… the Hero of Ferelden. Mahariel had returned. She had been to Adamant, but the Fade had already swallowed her whole.

Mahariel had never liked the Fade. __You have no idea how badly I hate being transformed into a mouse__ _._

Merrill looked up at Leliana expectantly. “The stories always said that Warden Alistair married Mahariel in secret, but…”

“That is __not__ true,” Leliana snapped.

“I know,” she giggled. 'Mahariel would never get __married__. But she did love __you__ _,_ didn't she?”

“Yes, I… How did you know?”

“Isabela tells stories, too,” Merrill said. “But I think she made up a few details to make it dirty. She always likes making her stories dirty.” She giggled again. “I think the Mahariel I knew would be absolutely appalled to hear those stories. She always did hate _shemlen_.”

“Yes, she… she did.”

“She must love you very much, then.”

Leliana fiddled with her fingers. “Can you tell me about her?”

“You probably know more than I do by now.”

Her voice was quiet. Tentative. “It has been a very long time since… It would help to hear about her from someone who knew her.

“She dropped dung on me once.”

“Dung?”

“Yes. Halla dung. She hid in a tree and dropped a whole bag of it on my head.”

“Why would she do such a thing?”

“I… may have gotten her in trouble with the Keeper. She and Tamlen had snuck away again, and… Oh, I must have smelled for weeks. The Keeper didn't seem to mind, though. 'Mahariel is always so serious,' she said. It __was__ good to see her lighten up.”

“Thank you, Merrill.”

“I haven't really had the chance to talk about her in a while. Most people don't really want to think about how she's an __elf__ of all things. They all like to think of her as a tall graceful human lady.”

Leliana chuckled. “She hated that.”

“They'll all come back, you know. Hawke is very good at killing things. And Mahariel… Well I've never seen one person dodge __so__ many arrows before.”

“Is there a story behind that, too?”

“Oh, well, Mahariel and Fenarel were out hunting. Tamlen bet Feynriel could get the bear before she could…”

 

**THE SLATTERN'S STORY**

“Whore.”

“Try again, battering ram.”

“ _Slattern_.”

“I'm sorry? Are you actually trying to insult me? You're not very good at it. At least we know you're good in a fight. Even if you do manage to lose your sword, you can just pull the stick out of your ass and swing __that__ around. No brains, but with that stick you'll do just fine.”

Aveline brought her fist down against the bar table, receiving brief but non-committed glances from the rest of the Hanged Man's patrons. “What do you think you're doing here?”

“Having a damn drink. Really. Are you completely daft?”

“Two years, Isabela. Do you know how long it took to put her back together?” She frowned when Isabela retreated in her drink. Aveline slapped the mug away. “ _No_. You don't know. Because you weren't here.”

“I told her no feelings,” she whispered.

“Maker's breath, don't you dare play dumb. You knew exactly what you were doing, didn't you? All this time. You had her wrapped around your little finger, and she nearly died for it.”

“ _I'm aware._ _Thank you_ for reminding me.”

“Why. Are. You. Back.”

Isabela reached over the bar, pouring herself another helping of rat-flavored whiskey. “Is she happy?”

“Happy enough.”

“Then I've gotten what I've come for.” Something stirred at the bottom of her glass. She chose to ignore it. “I know you'll take care of her, you mannish, awkward, ball-crushing do-gooder.”

Aveline crossed her arms. “Shut up, whore. Is that it, then? Just going to give up when something little stands in your way? I must have the wrong pirate hag.”

“I'd hardly call you __little__ _._ ” She stopped walking towards the door. “Griffon-lips.”

“Scurvy tramp.”

“Carrot head.”

“Strumpet.”

“Frigid bear-sow.”

“Wine-soaked pearl diver.”

“Ooh. I like that one.” Isabela shifted. Turned around almost. Away from the door almost. “I bet you've spent the last two years thinking of it.”

“You bet I have.”

“What do you want from me, then?”

“I want you to put up a fight. She did. For you.”

Isabela winced. “I'm not very good at this sort of thing.”

“Oh for the love of-- She doesn't need to  _hear_ you say it, you poxy tart. You just need to be there. Even if she insists on fighting for some grand principle or the other. You be there. By her side. She  _needs_  you, you know.”

“I don't think I could leave her again,” she whispered, only loud enough for Aveline to hear.

“You were about to just now.”

“Right. As if. I would have found a shadowy perch from which to watch from afar.” She straightened her back. “All those things I just said. You'll tell no one.”

“Can't have your reputation ruined, can we? Fine. But you'll come to my solstice dinner party. This year and every year after. You've already missed the last two.”

“Look at you! Dinner parties, cooking… do you have a lace apron yet, or should I get one for you?”

“It's far too soon for you to start pushing, whore. You're avoiding the subject. I could find Varric, you know. I hear he's writing a  _book_  about us.”

Isabela shuddered at the thought. Varric? Putting all her intimate feelings down? On paper? For  _others_  to read? “I thought… I mean, I don't know. I just don't do family gatherings. Besides. One day you and Donnic will have children, and I'll be the last person you want around them.” Isabela smiled, her back still to Aveline. She could almost see the smile from behind, though. “Imagine all the awkward questions you'd have to answer: ' _Mother, what's a slattern?'_ ”

“I'll just point at you and say, 'That's a slattern.'”

“I…” Isabela was already halfway out the door, but she had already become far more confident of her destination. “Thank you, big girl. And I'm sorry. Not just because I left Hawke.”

“Don't go soft on me, hag.”

“Rusty hinge.”

Aveline opened her mouth for a retort, but she smiled instead upon realizing that Isabela had already disappeared. She frowned, of course, upon further realizing that she had left her with the tab. __Oh that loose lipped__ _\--_

Isabela could have sauntered in through the door (Hawke had never locked the damn thing, anyway, and why should she? Any thief or vagabond would quickly be cut down. If Hawke didn't bring the blade down herself, she was certain Fenris would most gleefully play the role of bodyguard and dispatcher-of-unwanted-bandits).

So, Isabela snuck in through the back. Through the little hole that led through the underused pantry. She noticed, as she crawled through the passageway, that it had been well-tended. No surprise, she supposed. She still remembered the day she had taught Sandal how to get in and out without Bodhain noticing. ( _ _Enchantment__ _,_ he had exclaimed).

The pantry was underused as ever. More cobwebs and dust than actual consumables. Well, save for the stray bottles of Abyssal Peach, Maraas-Lok, and… Does that bottle say Dragon Piss? She'd have to try  _that_ later.

She almost didn't see the hat. Grand and large and adorned with soft feathers hanging off the back. She picked up the note that had been gingerly balanced against the hat.

 _I knew you wouldn't use the front door_ , it said.  _I'm glad you're back_.

She stroked the feathers as she climbed up the stairwell, pausing with every creak of the floorboards.

Isabela opened the door to find Hawke sitting, at the side of her bed.

“So,” Isabela said. “Surprise?”

“Go on. Put it on.” Hawke's voice was rough. Unreadable.

Isabela didn't hesitate. She didn't hesitate either as she stepped around the bed, crouching before Hawke, grabbing her hands in what seemed to be an entirely uncomfortable gesture.

“Those are hawk feathers, you know,” the Champion said. “I know that might seem awfully vain…”

“You didn't actually _poach_ a hawk, did you?”

“Of course, not. I climbed a cliff and picked stray feathers out of a nest.”

“You did not.”

“Just ask Aveline. She was absolutely _appalled_. I think Varric already has an entire chapter devoted to the escapade.”

“I love it,” Isabela said, and she ran a finger across the brim. “I always did like red.”

“We'll have to get you a jacket, next. With pauldrons. Or maybe a cape?”

“A cape?”

“Isn't that what pirates wear?”

“Oh? And how many pirates have you met, goose?”

“Just you, darling.”

Isabela tilted her head down, hiding her eyes within the shadow cast by the brim. “How did you know I was back?”

“I didn't.”

“But the--”

“--I knew you'd come back. Eventually.”

“All this time...”

Hawke cupped Isabela's cheek with her palm. Tentative. It shook, almost. “Now, don't get so gloomy,” she said. “You should be glad you didn't immediately come back.”

“Oh? Did you take up with a lover in my absence.”

“Shush. I'm trying to say something profound here,” Hawke said, ignoring her. “Your _hat_ , Isabela _._ I've made it more grand over the months. Adding bits and pieces. Here and there. I'm particularly fond of this little detail.” She pulled a tassle from behind the feathers. “Recognize it?”

“Is that--”

“--a Rivaini fertility talisman. I figured it wouldn't be any hat of yours if it didn't contain some sort of flowered imagery.”

“But it also--”

“--I know. You don't actually have to keep that bit. It was a little foolish of me.”

“No, I want to keep it.”

“Isabela…”

“You're making this too easy, sweetness. You're supposed to __hate__ me for leaving. You're supposed to have angry rants for me.”

“No. I've already lost so much. I couldn't lose… However you'll have me. I don't want to waste another moment.”

They kissed. They kissed as though it had been the first time they had ever kissed. Isabela straddled the woman, grasping at her skin.

Stripping her bare.

Committing, once again, her skin to memory.

Confirming.

Recognizing.

A new scar. Deep. Wide. Spread over her gut. She traced the edges of the scar with her finger, watching as Hawke shivered with the sensation.

“I named that one after you, you know,” she said.

“I'm touched,” Isabeal said, a little less than pleased.

“It's my favorite one.” She lifted her head, interrupting Isabela's thought with yet another kiss. “It's also __very__ sensitive.”

Isabela smiled, ghosting her lips over the scar. “Tell me what I've missed,” she said.

“I think… I think Anders wants a cat…”

She kissed the edge. “Boring. What else?”

“Uh… I… Fenris… I brought Fenris to a party once… Someone asked him if he would fetch their tea… He punched her… Fenris punched a noble…”

She slid lower, lifting Hawke's legs. “Better. But try again.”

“Maker, I… I have a manuscript! One of Varric's new books…”

“That's hardly interesting.”

“...It's about Aveline.”

“Is that all?”

“It's __smut__ , all right? Smut about __Aveline__.”

Isabela lifted her head out from between Hawke's legs. “ _No_. Really? Does she know? __Really__? And you have the manuscript?”

“Yes!” Hawke exclaimed. She pushed Isabela's head back down. “I'll let you have a damn read, but not until you've finished!”

They don't make grand declarations. Not on that night. Nothing beyond the stray remark coaxed out during sex. They don't need to make grand declarations. Not really. Still. Later, Hawke will approach her. She'll find Isabela leaning against the bar, as always, in the Hanged Man. Isabela will feign disinterest.

“I'm only here for the rat-flavored whiskey,” Hawke will say, and for that, Isabela will make her  _drink_ it.

She'll pull her aside to a table. Awkwardly. With a flustered look in her eyes. Hawke will consider poking fun, but she won't. They'll sit instead. And then, only then, will she say  _it_. In plain view. Within ear shot of just about anyone.

“You and me,” she'll say (and oh yes, she'll ramble). “Just you and me chasing that horizon. I can't think of any place I'd rather be. I… I'm falling for you. Just tell me, Hawke, if I have a chance with you.”

And Hawke will laugh. “Don't you remember the hat?” Then, “I waited years for you.”

“Thank you for waiting.”

She won't give a damn who hears.

 

**THE VASHOTH'S STORY**

In truth, she had gotten along fine with Shokrakar and the Valo-Kas, because for the most part they had left her alone. They had found her good fights that boiled her blood, and that had been enough. Sure Kaariss had attempted to regale her with poetry more than a few times, but she had always found the experience mundane. Plus, if she had ever decided to sleep with him, she was nearly certain that he would have cried.

 _Venak hol._ Did they always have to cry?

She supposed the Inquisition had spoiled her, though. Only the biggest fights here. The bite of adrenaline. Excitement. Things she's never done before. Never even dreamed of doing.

And Cassandra.

Strange.

_**1\. Adaar fights a giant.** _

“Seeker, __look__. I've never fought a giant before.”

She watched as Adaar leapt over rocks towards the giant. Adaar had barely said a word through the entire expedition, but now as waves wrapped around the Vashoth's legs… Adaar hadn't even waited long enough for the rest to react. Salt in her nose, a burn in her muscles, and a giant tower over head. Adaar felt the turmoil of adrenaline bubble through her, and  _damn_. Doesn't get better than this.

The Iron Bull laughed, obviously pleased, quickly joining Adaar in the fray.

“Could be worse,” Varric said. “We __could__ be in the Deep Roads trying to fight off a Rock Wraith. Maker, I hate those things.” He followed their horned companions to the coast, looking over his shoulder at Cassandra. “What? You're just going to stand there?”

Grunting she ran forth, lifting her shield as she attempted to defend the Herald's flank. Adaar, for her part, seemed lost in the bloodlust, ripping into the giant's legs with abandon, bringing it to its knees.

The giant shrieked. Flailed.

Adaar threw her sword into the giant's eye.

“Good fight, boss!” The Iron Bull triumphantly planted a foot on the downed giant's back. “Giants! Good fun!”

“Perhaps we should avoid such fights in the future,” Cassandra grumbled, wiping the blood from her breastplate.

Adaar clapped the Seeker on the shoulder. “Come now. Don't tell me you didn't have at least a little fun.”

“No. Not at all.” But Cassandra couldn't help breaking out into a small smile.

Which only served to further encourage Adaar. “Maybe we'll find a dragon for you, then. Dragons __always__ make for good fights. But you would know that better than anybody.”

“Where did you…? Of course someone told you.”

“Relax, Seeker. I'm only teasing. You get this little knot between your eyebrows. See? There it is.”

Cassandra made a disgusted noise, turning to help Bull strip the felled giant of any valuables they could find. She pulled a dagger out from the giant's leg, attempting to ignore the way the hairs on her neck bristled beneath Adaar's stare. An eginma. Infuriating.

“You know,” Adaar continued, “I never actually heard the story.”

“Sweet Andraste. You really want to hear that.” Cassandra sighed. “ _Fine._ I stumbled upon a conspiracy to kill Divine Beatrix. A Templar Knight-Commander was at its heart, and there was a dragon battle at the Grand Cathedral. But I had help from loyal mages who rallied to the cause. They freed the dragon from control. Without them, the Divine and I would both have died. Yet I became the Right Hand, and they are forgotten.”

Adaar found herself smiling, as though she were having it out with the giant all over again. “You're delightful, you know that?”

“No. I do not know that.”

“Mm-hm.”

“I object. There is nothing delightful about me.”

“I beg to differ,” Adaar said.

“I think I preferred you in the stocks.”

An even wider smile spread across the Vashoth's lips; “I'm sure you did. Isn't  _that_ scandalous.” Her pack nearly spilled with the giant's loot. “Back to Haven, then?”

Cassandra sputtered.

Varric, meanwhile, stowed Bianca, chuckling as he nudged the speechless woman. “ _Seeker_ ,” he said. “Are you __blushing__?”

**_2\. Adaar travels through time._ **

She opened her eyes and everything had turned red. Then, Dorian pulled her to her feet, explaining that Alexius had not merely transported elsewhere but to an altogether different time.

Time travel.

Haven't done that before.

Didn't think it would turn out so red.

They had found Varric first, who seemed to take the entire “we traveled through time” explanation in stride. Too much time spent with the Champion of Kirkwall, perhaps.

Cassandra, though, had prayed, her voice shivering with the same red lyrium song that had flowed through Varric. It… unsettled Adaar.

They traveled through the keep, and Adaar made poor attempts at conversation. Desperate attempts to coerce the little knot back out, to see Cassandra's brow furrow, to see a reaction, something,  _anything_. But Cassandra only grunted. No sighs. No disgusted noises.

An acknowledgment here. An acknowledgment there.

Short breaths as she swings her sword.

Adaar did not think she would so incredibly  _dislike_  traveling through time. Two years gone. Two years during which Corypheus had been allowed to reign, and Cassandra had become reduced to… this.

“She blamed herself when you died,” Varric said, quietly. “Well, you didn't die. But we didn't know that then.”

“What happened?”

“Corypheus assassinated Empress Celene and marched his blighted demon army through the South. As for Cassandra… I always thought you were a good influence on her.”

“Don't be ridiculous.”

“When you get back – because I know you will – don't let her get away this time.”

“You don't know me very well.”

“No, but I've had a lot of time to think. To interpret. I can also see that this bothers you.”

Adaar grunted. She could at least find Alexius's cronies. Skewer them on her blade. Kill Alexius. Get back home. Change everything back. She tightened her jaw as she swung her blade. They find Leliana. She growled again. Can't let this happen. The Hero would never forgive her. Swing. Slash. Kill Alexius. Get back home. She ripped through mage after mage. Pull them close. Pierce, slice, and thrust.

Through the door.

Alexius.

A shadow of his former self. Easy to kill.

Get back. Change everything back.

Dorian opened the portal, and she watched as Cassandra leapt forward, expending the last of her fiery determination through one final push. Dorian pulled her back, and when she reopened her eyes, the red had faded away.

It's over now.

Cassandra looks her over, turning questions over in her mind. As they make their return to Haven, Adaar prods her in the ribs, and a knot forms between her brow.

**_3\. Adaar eats little cakes._ **

Cole and Adaar sat before the campfire, taking first watch. Well, Adaar had taken first watch. Cole… Cole didn't sleep. He didn't count. She liked this, though. Taking watch through the night. Roaming the Ferelden wilderness. Sure, bringing a mountain down on the Archdemon had been exciting enough, but now that she had been named Inquisitor… Paperwork. She'd like nothing more than to throw the paperwork into the damn fire.

“You like the cakes because they are small,” Cole said. “You like little things.”

“Maybe they make me feel big and strong.”

“Like a dragon.” Cole smiled with the revelation. The smile only widened when another revelation arrived. “She is little and you like her, too. But not because she is little.  _She_  is like a dragon.”

Adaar shifted on the log, grabbing another cake and putting it into Cole's hands. She fought the urge to stuff the confection into his mouth.

“Here,” she said. “Peach and brandy filling. You'll like it.”

“I don't eat.”

“No, you don't __need__ to eat. But you won't know if you __like__ eating unless you try.”

“ _Oh_. I see.” He looked up at her, yet another revelation falling into place. “That __does__ make sense.”

“Don't talk. Just eat.”

Cole took a single tentative bite before devouring the entire cake altogether. He very nearly snatched the next cake Adaar handed to him. Chocolate. Slathered with caramel and nuts. The third cake had tasted of figs and cherries.

The silence broke when the scout arrived, delivering a quick and uneventful report before turning to return to his rounds. Cole's eyes widened. He rummaged through the pack before settling on a single cake, grabbing the scout before he can leave. Cole placed the cake into the scout's hands then disappeared only to reappear by the Inquisitor's side.

“Tell me about him,” Adaar said, her voice tentative.

“Middle child. Caught in a war he cannot win. The Circle took his brother away. The eldest became a Templar. Everything ended.” He grabbed yet another cake, identical to the one he had handed to the scout. “When they were boys, they stole syrup from their uncle's pantry. Spilled it into the snow. Made candy. He misses them. He wants to be a boy again. No more mages. No more Templars. Just candy made from syrup in the snow… The older boys tried to take the candy away but Samuel __protected__ them.”

“And the cake?”

“It has syrup in the middle.” He bit into the soft confection. “He hasn't had syrup since his brothers went away.  _It tastes like he remembers_.”

Adaar stared into the fire, nearly burning her eyes with the harsh light. “And how do you see me?”

“You're too bright. Like counting birds against the sun. The mark makes you more but past it...” Cole furrowed his brow. “Muted. Like… They did something to you. When you were young. Before memories could take root.”

“Is there anything there?”

“You want me to say _yes_.”

“But you can't.”

“I do not know how to help you be better.”

Adaar said nothing. She snapped her head towards the sound of rustling blankets, of twigs snapping beneath feet. Cassandra emerged from her tent.

“But she might,” Cole said and he furrowed his brow again, wrapping his mind around the puzzle. “ _You don't remember how to dream. Connection lost. Broken. Torn to shreds. Doesn't mean it's gone. Still there. Too quiet for even me to hear, but still there._ ”

He disappeared before Cassandra could take notice.

“You did not wake me,” she said. “You should have.”

“I thought I'd let you get your beauty sleep,” Adaar replied, smirking. “And I'm not all that tired.”

“You are the Inquisitor. You _should_ sleep.”

“Yes, I'm the Inquisitor. I can sleep when I'm dead.”

“That isn't a pleasant thought.” Cassandra crossed her arms before planting herself beside Adaar where Cole had once been. Her arm brushed lightly against the Vashoth, and she felt her breath stop short in her chest. “Go. Sleep.”

“Lady Pentaghast,” teased Adaar. “I'm hurt. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you don't enjoy my company.”

“I thought we agreed you would not call me that!” Cassandra said, positively flustered. “And I __do__ enjoy your company. Even if you insist on being so...” Cassandra waved her hand. “So trying.”

As if on cue, Adaar jabbed Cassandra in between the ribs. “But your reactions make it _so_ _fun_.”

 _Like prodding a_ _ _dragon__. _A little dragon but a dragon nonetheless._

“One day they will say that the Inquisitor was a funny Qunari,” Cassandra deadpanned, following through with a disgusted noise.

“You used to like my sense of humor.”

“Well, it appears I now know you well enough to know when your awful jokes are coming.”

“I am __not__ predictable.”

“And that, my friend,” said Cassandra, breaking out into her own proud smile, “is revenge for calling me delightful.”

Adaar growled, distracting herself with another cake. The cakes, no larger than Cassandra's palm, were comical between Adaar's fingers. The Vashoth popped the entire thing in her mouth before grabbing a similar cake for Cassandra.

“Try this one,” she said.

Cassandra narrowed her eyes as she accepted the gift. She twisted it around in her hands, examining the confection until she could finally bring herself to acquiesce.

It was not a gift. “This is… blasphemous. What is that horrible taste?”

She dropped the half eaten cake to the ground on reflex, coughing as the flavor (if you could call it that) filled her mouth. She reached desperately for her flask of water.

“Deep mushroom and anise.” Adaar grabbed it off the ground, dusting it off before biting into it.

“You cannot possibly think this is palatable.”

“No,” Adaar admitted, releasing a short laugh. “But it's called Exquisite Misery. I'm eating Exquisite Misery.” She laughed again. “Now  _ _that__ I like.”

_**4\. Adaar throws Dorian into a fountain.** _

“Was that at __all__ entirely necessary?” Dorian said, shuddering when he felt a decorative fish brush past his leg.

Adaar crouched before tilting her head to the side, saying nothing while she allowed Cole to gleefully voice her words: “So you __do__ use magic to put up your hair!” Cole peered over at Dorian's ever-impeccable locks. “Did you bind a demon to it?” Cole looked back at Adaar. “That is a silly thought.”

Adaar only shrugged. A masked Orlesian let out a shriek as he passed the Vashoth by. She was also vaguely aware that someone had fainted behind her.

“Well, I'm positively drenched, now. I hope you're happy.”

“I am,” she said. “Val Royeaux is boring. But this was fun.”

“I'm so glad I was able to provide your Worship with a means for entertainment. Next you'll be telling me you'd like me to perform as your personal court jester.”

Adaar opened her mouth…

“ _No_.” Dorian attempted to squeeze water out of his clothes. He had to admit, despite himself, that the commotion they had caused  _was_  quite amusing. His Tevinter brethren would be absolutely appalled if they knew he had allowed himself to be thrown into a fountain. Never mind that. They'd be absolutely appalled to learn that he had become good old friends with a Vashoth. With a glint in his eye: “If you are that inclined to have a magical jester perform tricks for your fancy, you ought to ask Solas.”

“We can put him in a hat,” said Adaar, pleased with the idea.

“I like hats,” Cole said.

Cassandra could not believe her eyes. She stormed in from the bookshop she had been perusing. Could she not step away for even a moment?

“What is this?” she demanded. To say she was incensed was an understatement.

“Oh, we were just providing our illustrious leader with a little fun and games.”

“Fun and games? People are staring!”

Adaar dismissed the idea with a wave of her hand. “They'd stare anyway. __An oxwoman! She'll eat me!__ As though I'd eat a human.”

“Southerners do have a little extra gristle on their bones,” said Dorian. “Makes for sweeter meat. Must be all this insufferable cold.”

“ _ _The two of you__ are insufferable,” Cassandra said, still seething.

But Dorian had already moved on; “ _Seeker_ , is that a copy of one of Varric's books?”

“Absolutely n--”

“--Why it is!” He grabbed the book, flipping through the pages. “My. Is this Swords & Shields? This drivel? You Southerners really _are_ peasants.”

“Wait.” Adaar stepped back, raising an eyebrow. “You're blushing again!”

“No, I-- This is _your_ fault, Tevinter.”

“I call it payback. I couldn't even finish the one you let me. I actually feel dumber for having tried.”

Adaar smiled. “It seems I should give this book a read as well.”

“You can't! You're… the Inquisitor.”

“And?”

“Go on, Seeker,” said Dorian. “Tell her. I think it's high time for __you__ to play jester.”

“It's… literature,” she said, and she could look at neither Dorian or the Inquisitor. “Smutty literature.” She clutched at the book. “Pretend you don't know this about me.”

“I don't think I can,” Adaar said, delighted. “Then it's settled. I'll buy myself a copy.”

“ _Adaar!_ ” She couldn't let the Inquisitor go through with this. In public, no less. Surely they would accuse her of __corrupting__ the Herald. But in a few short steps, Adaar had already made her way to the shop, and she had wasted no time in finding a copy in the five copper bargain bin.

“No, no, let her go,” Dorian said. “It'll do good for her to have something that will keep her entertained for a while. She might even stop tossing me into blasted fountains. In fact, if we're not careful, our Inquisitor will soon begin to attempt negotiations with demons that fart fire. For fun.”

“That is preposterous,” Cassandra said.

_**5\. Adaar barters with a demon.** _

The desire demon had already possessed the body of a corrupted Red Templar, but it gazed over Adaar's body with a measure of curiosity.

“I'll take the virgins please,” she said.

The demon sighed. “I suppose I should actually gather a few virgins one of these days. Everyone always wants the virgins, and I never have any to give. Isn't there anything else I can  _do_  for you?”

“In that form? Probably not. You've got red lyrium… in places.”

“Power, then.”

“I'm the Inquisitor.”

“Riches.”

“I honestly have more sovereigns than I know what to do with.”

The demon ran a finger across Adaar's cheek, sidling up to the Vashoth. “I could give you anything you desire, you know. Let me into your head, and I can lift all that _responsibility_ from your shoulders.”

Adaar didn't even flinch. Hell, she laughed. Guffawed. “Ha. I'd like to see you try.”

Cassandra looked on in fear. Or astonishment. Both. She couldn't decide. Dorian looked equally distressed (as any mage _should_ in the presence of a demon threatening possession) but Cole… Was that amusement?

The demon hissed.

“I assume you didn't like what you found,” Adaar said, thoroughly bored as she watched the demon sniff her.

“You don't smell right,” it said.

“Eh. I've heard worse.” She sighed when the demon hissed again, wasting no time in shoving her sword through its body. She pulled a few trinkets from the lifeless body. “Dagna will want to have a look at these, I'm sure.”

She walked away, leaving her companions utterly flabbergasted as to what had just occurred.

“Well,” Dorian said. “It didn't fart fire.”

_**6\. Adaar assaults Bull in the genitals.** _

Adaar followed Bull, trailing by a single pace. “So when are you actually going to tell me why you've brought us here?”

“In due time,” he said. “But I'm still not comfortable with __her__ here. No offense, Seeker.”

“I trust her,” Adaar cut in, before Cassandra could say a word. “You on the other hand, refuse to reveal a single detail.”

Bull gestured to the camp in the distance. “We had a squad of agents stationed on the Storm Coast. They haven't reported in. Did a little digging. Turns out Tal-Vashoth trailed them here. Took them down and now they've got hostages. Hostages are no good.”

“And you brought me here _why_?”

“Couldn't do it alone, and I couldn't bring the Chargers in on this one either. You seemed bored, and I figured you could use a good fight. Unless you have problems scuffling with your kin.”

“ _ _They__ are not my kin.” Adaar's jaw twitched. “But I don't make a habit out of doing Ben-Hassrath dirty work.”

Cassandra unsheathed her sword, gesturing at the Tal-Vashoth scout that had called an alarm. “It appears we do not have a choice. They've seen us.”

Adaar charged forward with a growl, spinning her sword with deadly abandon. The Iron Bull snorted with approval.

He held back as he observed Adaar. He watched as she swung her blade. He saw that she did not hesitate.

Good.

Adaar wiped her sword of Tal-Vashoth blood, putting the blade aside as she searched the camp. In the corner. There. Behind the tent.

These are the hostages. Were the hostages. Only one had survived. The caged mask covered the Qunari's face. His lips had been sown shut. His wrists, cuffed and chained. The Qunari looked up at Adaar before turning to look into his dead comrade's eyes.

“What is this?” Cassandra breathed.

“Really?” Adaar's voice was tinged with a strange quality. “All that time in Kirkwall, and you've never seen a Saarebas? I'm surprised.”

“His lips…”

Adaar frowned. “So that he can't perform dangerous magic. If he had, they would have cut his tongue out, too. The Qunari and Vashoth alike are not so kind as to simply make their mages _tranquil_.”

“A necessary precaution,” the Iron Bull said. He gestured toward the dead hostage. “I assume you know what must be done.”

Adaar pulled a knife from her belt and severed the threads that had bound the lips together.

The Saarebas pointed to his dead comrade. “ _ _Arvaarad__ ,” he said. He pointed to Adaar. “ _ _Basvaarad__?”

“Ha!” The Iron Bull laughed. “He saw you fight. He likes you. Doesn't change anything, though.” He looked eyes with the man. His next words were gentle: “ _ _Ebost issala__.”

The Saarebas nodded. “ _ _Anaan esaam Qun__ _._ ” And he reached, grabbing for Adaar's knife.

But Adaar pulled back, throwing the knife, allowing it to clatter against the salt-crusted rocks. “No,” she said. She pointed to her chest. “ _ _Basvaarad__.” She grabbed him by the head and felt him nod again. “ _ _Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun. Maraas shokra__ _._ ”

“ _ _Anaan esaam Qun__ _,_ ” the Iron Bull finished. He frowned. Adaar's words had been flawless.

“No.” Adaar tightened her hold on the head, twisting the spine into a swift snap. “The Qun has won nothing here.”

“I thought you didn't know Qunlat.”

“So I lied. If I hadn't, I wouldn't be able to appreciate the look on your face right now.” Adaar brushed the dirt from her armor. “I'm not familiar with every little word. But I know enough.”

“Good to know,” he said.

Adaar's expression. It was the closest thing to distress Cassandra had ever seen grace her features.

“This was a test,” she snarled, pushing Bull. “A game. You wanted to see what I would do.”

“At least admit you've been doing the same thing. Ever since you've been made Inquisitor, you've been testing me at every turn.  _Testing_ my loyalty. I'm here to stop Corypheus. As long as you've got that mark on your hand, the Ben-Hassrath have no interest in ending your life.”

“You won't do this again,” Adaar said, gazing upon the pile of dead Qunari and Tal-Vashoth alike. “Unless a matter involves the Inquisition, you won't drag me into your Qunari squabbles. Is that clear?”

“Fine. Only Vints and Templars then, from here on out. You got it, boss.”

“Oh, you're not off the hook, yet.” Adaar's mouth curled up ever so slightly, a twitch touching the corner of her lips. “ _ _Kadanshok defransdim vashedan__.”

Bull whipped his head back towards Adaar, processing the words through his mind: “Wait, what?”

Too late. Adaar lifted her steel-clad foot hard between the Iron Bull's legs. The toe met armor with unadulterated force. Bull fell to the ground.

He whimpered.

“I said, _'_ _ _Kadanshok defransdim vashedan__.”

“No, please no. Not again.”

“I thought I'd give you a taste of Tal-Vashoth justice.”

“Well played,” he muttered, cradling the fresh injury. He curled into the dirt. Laughing through the pain. Well played, indeed.

Cassandra nearly tripped over a root attempting to catch up to Adaar.

“Is that all you will do?”

Adaar quirked her eyebrow as she looked down at Cassandra. “Why not? Tal-Vashoth justice. I kicked his balls. Now he won't try something like this again.” She caught glimpse of Bull who had finally lifted himself off of the ground but had instead resorted to leaning against a tree. “Now he knows that the matter is done and the air between us is clear. Simple.”

Cassandra frowned. She would bring this matter to Leliana. She would not allow herself to trust Bull so easily now. Adaar's distress… It had been very nearly palpable. She did not know why, but it had disturbed her, too. Deeply.

_**7\. Adaar and Cassandra clear the air. Sort of.** _

Cassandra descended the stairs, making her way down to the recently renovated prison cells. Not that the cells had ever been occupied. She had spoken to Leliana, of course, as soon as they had returned to Skyhold from the Storm Coast.

"She left for the dungeons," Leliana had said. A subtle hint. "It seems she has occasionally spent nights there."

She didn't want to think about how it was that Leliana constantly knew everyone's location. A necessary evil, perhaps, but she did not enjoy the idea of eyes constantly keeping watch. Cassandra passed through the first set of cells to the next. The portion that had not yet been renovated. Floor crumbling. The night sky above their heads. Adaar had set up a thin bedroll inside one of the cells.

“Most people sleep on mattresses. With blankets. And pillows."

“Says the woman who sleeps above the forge.” Adaar looked out over the edge. “I like the water.” A glance to Cassandra. "And this brings back such _f_ _ond_ memories. Care to cuff me?"

She sat beside Adaar. “Inquisitor...”

“You want to discuss what happened with Bull.”

“Yes. It has been weighing on me for some time. It occurs to me that I do not know a great deal about you.”

“You don't already know all my little secrets?”

“It is true that Leliana has amassed a frightening amount of information on you. But I did not feel it was proper. I prefer to ask you myself.”

Hm. Adaar wondered how much Leliana __did__ know. She certainly knew nothing of Mahariel, that much was clear. Everything else though… Those secrets had not been so well-kept. Not to a bard of Leliana's prowess, of course.

“You know what I am,” Adaar said. “An oxwoman from the Free Marches.”

Cassandra scoffed. “That is hardly __all__ you are.”

“It's all I should be.”

“And this… Saarebas?”

Adaar thought about lying. It would be easy. Dismiss the whole situation entirely. __I don't like doing dirty work for the Ben-Hassrath. That is all__ _._ But as she gazed down upon Cassandra's expectant face, she found that she did not want to lie. An unexpected reaction. Unfamiliar.

Seeker of Truth indeed.

“It's what I could have been.”

“You are a mage.”

“Yes. __No__ _._ Maybe. I don't know.” She looked away. “My father was Saarebas. They may have left the Qun but many Tal-Vashoth cling to __some__ of the Qun's teachings. They don't know much else, and the probability that I…”

“You were made…”

“A chantry sister pitied us.” The room was dark. Even if she were to look at Cassandra, she would not be able to make out her face. “I was very young.”

“But you are not like others I have met.”

“As I said. I was very young. Adults may not adapt, but children do. I've learned to cope, and I've found my own way of living. This is all I've known.”

“To have gone through the rite as a child…” Cassandra twisted her fingers together. “It is barbaric.”

Adaar laughed. “Any less barbaric than having my lips sown together for the rest of my life? To be collared and chained? No. This is better.”

“So you do not feel…” Cassandra's voice trailed off. She wanted… She should not, but… She had hoped. Foolishly.

“No.” There is a finality to her voice. A finality that quickly dissipates, and in its place, she sighs. “It takes a great deal of effort.”

“This is why you fight Archdemons and giants.”

“Yes.”

“And tempt __demons__.”

“Yes.”

“Although I would prefer that you not do __that__ again.”

“They aren't interested in me anyhow. And it wasn't as exciting as I thought it would be.” Adaar felt her blood boil; “Maybe if it had actually had those virgins…”

“ _Inquisitor_.” A disgusted noise. A half-hearted warning.

Adaar continued. “Most people who know want to study me. Apparently, I could be revolutionary. Shake the very foundation of how mages are treated.”

“You are still a person,” said Cassandra.

“I bet Dagna would like a go at it.”

“I think not. She has already submitted multiple requests to dissect your hand should you ever be parted from it.”

“Jealous, Seeker? Maybe you do want to study me, after all.”

Even in the dark, Adaar could see that little delightful knot that had formed between Cassandra's brow. She remembered the future she had endured with Dorian. Remembered the way Cassandara had failed to react to her pocking and prodding. That delightful little knot… Adaar surged forward. She surged forward as she had against the giant and the Archdemon and the horde of Tal-Vashoth.

She kissed Cassandra Pentaghast.

* * *

 

**III.**

**DREAMERS IN THE FADE**

Hawke and Adaar crossed blades with spiders. Giant spiders. With beady little eyes and furry legs. They scutttled. Adaar could feel the little ones climb up her leg. But Mahariel saw the Blight. Men and women who had become consumed with Blight-Sickness.

Tamlen. __Must I kill him again?__

Merrill. __I should have listened…__

Alistair. __Was he right?__

Morrigan. __You don't have to do this alone.__

Leliana. __Ma vhenan. I'm sorry.__

Then...

Anders. __Make the singing stop__ _._ _ _Please.__

“It appears I owe you an apology,” Mahariel said, as she pulled her dagger from the demon's chest.

“Excuse me? Did I hear that right? The Hero of Ferelden owes little old me an apology? And all I wanted was an autograph. Where's Varric when you need him?”

“What happened in Kirkwall… I should have never allowed it occur.”

“I don't know what you would have done. And I hardly think there would have been room for two Champions of Kirwall regardless.”

Cole appeared between the two women his brow furrowed. “ _What went wrong? My student. My charge. My friends. Both. I should have… I could have… Darkspawn singing in our ears; I did this. He used to be different. Does this make you my familiar, Ser Pounce-a-lot? Do you think it's appropriate? Shall I train you to become a vicious attack kitten? Andraste's Knickerweasels._ ” He turned to look at Mahariel. “What are knickerweasels?”

“I would assume,” said Hawke, a little awkwardly, “that they are knickers with a little weasel pattern all across. Or knickers you would put on a weasel. Or weasels that like to play in piles of knickers.”

Mahariel steeled herself. “Anders never really specified.”

“ _Anders_ came up with that? He had a cat named  _Ser Pounce-a-lot_? I always knew he liked cats but...”

“When I knew him, he was different,” Mahariel said. “Justice, too. When I heard of what they had done, I nearly didn't believe it. I thought maybe they had been mistaken. This is why I owe you an apology. Anders was  _my_ responsibility.”

“It's not entirely your fault. The whole damn city went nuts. You know. On account of the red lyrium Varric and I accidentally dug up.”

“What was he like? In Kirkwall?”

“Confused. Angry. But he started a clinic. And he would leave out saucers of milk when he thought no one was looking.”

Mahariel smiled, tightening her lips as she attempted to keep the Calling at bay. “When he blew up Kirkwall's Chantry... By then many of us had begun to hear the Calling.”

“Do you think…?”

“I don't know.” She looked up at Hawke. “Thank you, though. For cleaning up my mess. And for taking care of Merrill.”

Hawke opened her mouth to reply but was quickly interrupted (quite rudely, in her opinion) by the ceaseless rumbling voice:

“Did you think you mattered, Hawke? Did you think anything you ever did mattered? You couldn't even save your city. How could you expect to strike down a god? Isabela is going to die. Just like your family and everyone you ever cared about.”

“Well that's going to grow tiresome quickly.”

 

**THE CHAMPION'S STORY**

Varric sighed. He had invited Blondie to the Hanged Man yet again, but the mage had failed to show. Something's off. Something's not right. Crisis at every turn, though: to his left, Hawke leaned back into her chair, stewing in her frustration. The honeymoon phase of the rekindled relationship between the Champioin and Pirate Queen had rolled through Kirkwall like a storm, fueled entirely by sex and leaving the port city positively _drenched_. But all storms pass.

Aveline scoffed.

"This is ridiculous, Hawke." Aveline pulled a card from the deck. "The two of you are ridiculous. No, never mind. This is normal behavior out of that slattern."

"So I'm the ridiculous one then? Is that it?"

"Absolutely. I'm tired of seeing you mope around like Fenris. Just work it out with her, Hawke."

"Really? And what do you expect me to do? Give her copper marigolds?"

"Say what you will, but you might as well just work it out now. We all know you'll wind up with your head between her legs anyway."

Varric laughed and winced all at once, the whiskey nearly shooting out of his nose. "Fighting words from the Guard-Captain! Married life seems to suit you."

"Someone needed to say it."

"Does Donnic kiss you with that mouth?" Hawke scowled.

"Considering you're sleeping with a pirate on the regular, I'd say your mouth is dirtier."

"I think you've had too much to drink."

Aveline smiled as she drew another card; "Now don't get sour just because you aren't getting any."

"You should make her jealous," Merrill said, still waiting for Fenris to make his move.

"Now that, Daisy, is grand idea. Divine justice. She gets friendly with a mysterious elven assassin, you get friendly with... Some other equivalent" Varric waved a hand at the bartender. "I think Daisy gets a drink for this one."

"Who says she'll even get jealous," Hawke said. She groaned, having already given up on the game.

Aveline smiled; "Oh, don't worry. I have a feeling it'll work."

"You could always spend a night at the Blooming Rose," Varric said.

"No. Too obvious,” said Aveline. “She's a whore, not stupid."

"There's always you." Varric put his cards to the side, fully turning to face both Aveline and Hawke who hadn't stopped groaning between gulps of alcohol. "Half of Kirkwall already thinks you're sleeping together."

"Me?"

Hawke perked back up; "Are we making Aveline the butt of our jokes again? Good."

"You should really read more," Varric said. "Tales of the Champion bedding the Guard-Captain have been circulating for weeks."

"If it helps, I'm usually on top."

"Well there was that lovely one where Aveline had you across her desk," Merrill added.

"No, Hawke, that does not help, and have you all read these?"

"I haven't," Fenris said, glaring at his cards.

"Thank you--"

"They don't teach slaves how to read in Tevinter." His expression remained unchanged. "Isabela read them to me."

"Oh for the love of--"

"Which would probably be why your little plan won't work," Fenris said. He gestured towards the door. "Our esteemeed __Knight__ -Captain, however, has just arrived."

"He's perfect," said Varric.

"Who's perfect?"

Isabela smiled, faltering only when she caught glimpse of Hawke. The warrior had quickly become engrossed with finding the very bottom of her mug. Her last words to Hawke seemed nearly palpable between them:

 _"_ __This is who I am. So what if I want to have sex with him?_ _ _"_

 _"_ __And what if I don't want you to? You'll do what? Leave?_ _ _"_

 _"_ __Maybe_ _ _."_

She hadn't meant it. _Of course, she hadn't meant it_. But she hadn't been able to stop the way the words had burst out from behind her teeth, leaping from her tongue. She hadn't even wanted to sleep with Zevran. Not really. But what did any of that matter when her mouth continued to spit out words, damn the consequences? Hawke had even tried to make good on the I'm-sorry-you-couldn't-fuck-the-assassin sex. But Isabela... She had refused… _Good on you, Isabela. Just like you. High time to make it go complelty wrong._ Isabela wanted to flip the table.

" _Y_ _ _ou'll do what? Leave?__ _"_

" _ _Maybe?__ "

Maker's breath. Her damn blighted mouth.

"You're still here, then?" Hawke said.

Isabela felt her face crumble. She wondered if Hawke could see. Merrill began to ramble on in a feeble attempt to cut through the tension. Varric had already sauntered towards the bar, and Fenris clinked together what few silvers he had remaining. Avaline glared.

"Hawke, I..."

But neither said another word to the other, and Hawke left the tavern without affording Isabela a single glance. Her companions' remarks rattled in her head, though, and she could feel Isabela's eyes on her as she cast Knight-Captain Cullen a brief smoldering glance. Cullen shifted. Suddenly uncomfortable with his unsolicited inclusion.

It would be weeks before they would speak again. Hawke sauntered into the Hanged Man with the intent to drag Varric along on yet another adventure. Isabela insisted, though, on tagging along. She wouldn't admit it out loud but… she missed Hawke.

Of course, now she found herself trailing behind some elf in an ironic bid to recover some valuable Qunari artifact. She seethed while Varric goaded her, only serving to further infuriate her. She wondered if Hawke would mind if she sent a few daggers the Qunari's way. But that was the problem, wasn't it? Because Hawke __would__ mind. The Quanri put her stupid little hand on Hawke's arm. Isabela clenched her fist.

“Isabela?” Varric said. “That sounded awfullly like a _growl._ Oh Maker's breath, you're __jealous__.”

But she didn't hear him. She was too busy straining to catch every word of the conversation between Tallis and Hawke.

“Are you married?” Tallis said.

Hawke smirked. “Is that a proposal?”

“It's just… You're the Champion of Kirkwall. Big. Important. I don't know. Just… wondering if there's a husband behind the throne. Or if there's room… for someone else.”

“Yes,” Isabela said, gritting her teeth. “That's a very good question, isn't it.”

Hawke met Isabela's eyes for the first time that day. Possibly for the first time in weeks. She looked away just as quickly, finding a place beside Tallis once again. “Coming on a bit strong there, Tallis. We've only just met.”

“But we've been through so much together,” Tallis said. “Wyvern hunts. Betrayals. Daring escapes from prisons.”

Isabela huffed. The nerve of this... this… __bitch__. She conjured up the image in her head. _Hawke squirming naked against the elf. Panting. Moaning. Reaching for someone who was decidedly_ _not_ _Isabela. The elf's fingers_ _inside_ _her…_ _ _No__ _. Wrong. It's wrong. Doesn't belong to you._ _ _Belong?__ _I don't..._ She conjured up another image. A threesome, maybe. More up her alley. But in her mind… __She watches as Tallis makes love to Hawke. Ha. Pathetic. She snatches Hawke away. Fucks her. Shows her. This is how it's done, and I'm the only one who can. Hawke begging. For her. Tallis not there anymore. Only you.__

_Only you._

Andraste's flaming knickers. Isabela adjusted her own smallclothes.

“You're right. I'm feeling so close to you right now.”

Tallis laughed. “So, it's true what they say about you.”

_Enough._

Isabela surged forward, her hand finding the small of Hawke's back. Ridiculous really. Considering the armor. “She likes rogues. __Rivaini__ rogues especially.”

In an instant Hawke found herself trailing behind with Varric, caught suddenly, in a pissing match between the two women. She glanced at Varric, beseeching him with her eyes.

“Don't look at me,” he said. “You brought this on yourself.”

Fine. Don't help. Isabela cornered Tallis. Pulled her into a dark corner.  _I know who you are, because I'm that way, too. No room for you here, and I won't let you hurt her. Only room for_ one _lying, backstabbing rogue, and barely at that. She'll help you, you know. If you ask. So don't. I'll end you. And you'll quickly find that my morals are not so set in stone. I'll end you._

She frowned when Tallis begged Hawke for help regardless.

"I can't do this without you," the Qunari elf said.

"Are you going to regale us now with your sob story?" Isabela glared. "I didn't bring any snacks."

"I used to be like you. I told myself if I never cared about anyone or anything, I could never be hurt. Life would be fun. But it wasn't. There was a hole inside me, and nothing I did ever filled it."

Isabela laughed. Hawke rolled her eyes. __Be serious__ _._

Too late, sweetness; "...That's too easy."

"Not everything should be easy. Don't you wonder what it would be like? A life with meaning? With purpose?"

"I _have_ a purpose," she said, but she wasn't talking to Tallis anymore. "I have Hawke."

"Lucky you," Tallis said, shortly.

 _Yes, lucky me_ , thought Isabela when she found herself in a room above the Hanged Man, Hawke laying naked beneath her, and the elf long gone. Lucky me, indeed. Only room for one conniving rogue. No more elves. No more damned Qunari.

“I'm sorry,” Isabela finally said. “I didn't actually want to sleep with Zevran, you know. I'm afraid you've ruined me.”

“I could never ruin you.”

“See? It's when you say things like that. In that way.”

“In what way?”

“Like you'd face a horde of darkspawn if I asked.”

“I would.”

“You're much better at this than I am.” Isabela fell back into the bed. “It's infuriating.”

“We're both pretty shit at this, really. I'm not perfect either. I love who you are. I don't want to make you change, and I don't want to tie you down. I don't want to be like __him__ _._ ”

Isabela buried her face into Hawke's shoulder, whispering into her ear; “Don't be an idiot, sweet thing. You are nothing like him. It helps that I actually love you.” She buried her head even further, attempting to hide the blush that had begun to appear. "You know, I wager we should __still__ have that threesome with Zevran."

"Oh really?"

"Yes. We'll all have sex and it'll be good fun, but it won't end there."

"It won't?"

"No," Isabela breathed. She retrieved the fantasy from her mind, switching the players around. "Because then you'll do that thing with your tongue. You'll fuck me. You'll make me scream. You'll show him that you can do things to me no one else can."

"I think I can manage that."

"Next time, then." She sighed. “This wont be our last big fight, will it?”

“Not a chance,” Hawke said, smirking. She flicked Isabela's nipple, causing the Rivaini to roll her eyes quite dramatically. “You were jealous of the Qunari.”

“Yes, rub it in, why don't you.”

The warrior made a poor attempt at imitating Isabela's voice; “She likes rogues. __Rivaini__ rogues especially.”

“Shut up.” Isabela's hand wandered between Hawke's legs. “This is hardly how normal couples solve their problems.”

“Doesn't matter. We'll figure this out. In our own way. Damn everybody else.”

 

**THE SEEKER'S STORY**

They hadn't talked about the kiss. They hadn't exactly denied the kiss either. It was all… Shared glances. Little smiles. A small blush that would creep up the side of her neck. An unassuming hand on her shoulder. The blush crept higher.

Dorian nudged the Seeker as they finished setting up the last of the Hinterlands' outposts. “Why, Cassandra, I've never seen you smile so much!”

“I am not smiling.”

“Now you're not, but only because I pointed it out.”

“I am not a giddy schoolgirl, Dorian.”

“That would be easier to believe if you if you hadn't just blushed.”

“I do not blush! Why does everyone insist that I blush?”

Cassandra coughed. She watched Adaar carefully, terrified that she might have heard _A_ _ _daar surges forward. Kisses her. Snakes her hand around into her hair. Her own hands find Adaar's arms. Adaar's scarred neck. Can't think. Stars glimmering above. It's very… romantic. Break apart. Still can't quite think. Adaar watches her, and Cassandra's hand trembles as she traces the scar running down Adaar's cheek. As her fingers lightly graze a curved horn. Beaten, battered, chipped. Bearing the memories of countless battles fought and won. A hitched breath. She doesn't know from whom.__

“Say what you will about Qunari,” the Tevinter said. “Their horns are quite striking.”

“ _Dorian_.”

Cole appeared beside them. “You think her horns are striking, too. You like the way they curve. You want to grab them.”

(A scandalous smile spread across Dorian's face).

“Cole!”

 __A hitched breath_ _ _._

But Adaar… She can't… Cassandra trudged through the sand, head down. It was not as though she had never entertained a romance, but she had… __expectations__. Demands. She required romance. She would not settle for less. Cassandra frowned. It would not be _settling_. To demand this of Adaar after only a kiss… It would be unfair. She could not force Adaar to become what she was not. To mold her to her expectations.

“You're afraid.”

“Get out of my head, Cole.”

She would have to tell her. Soon.

This cannot be. It would not be as though the Inquisitor would care. Surely, the Seeker could not possibly be of significant import to her. She would tell then this would be over.

“But you can help her,” he said. “She was afraid, too. You do. Help.”

But the Iron Bull had already turned to Adaar, his nostrils flaring. His voice became loud, drowning Cole's words in all his rumbling. “Do you…?”

“I smell it, too.”

Adaar and Bull broke off in a run, blustering as they followed their noses through the Hinterlands, forcing their companions to hopelessly match their impossible strides.

“Well, those two might as well be mabari hounds,” Dorian said, huffing. “I think I have already make it qute clear that I do __not__ run. This is appalling.” Huff. “This cold air is absolutely dreadful.” Huff. “If I had known the Inquisition would have made me __run__.” Huff. “Can we just kill Corypheus and be done with this now?”

“If you would stop talking, Tevinter, you would not be so uncomfortable.”

Huff. “Then how would you know how devastated I am by this entire scenario?”

A shriek. Fire descended from the sky, charring the ground before them in a grand display. Air whipped around in a cyclone. Wings flapping. A shriek.

“Oh, look,” Dorian said. “A dragon. What a perfect way to ruin our day.”

But Adaar and Bull had already run forward towards the beast, both nearly tripping over roots and rocks in their unadulterated excitement. It was almost… infectious.

“ _ _Taarsidath-an halsaam__ ,” Adaar exclaimed.

“ _ _Taarsidath-an halsaam__ ,” the Iron Bull agreed.

Cassandra sighed as she unsheathed her sword. “Do I want to know what that means?”

Cole shuddered beside Dorian. “No. You do not.”

“Well, if you put it that way,” Dorian said, “I certainly do.”

The ground shook as the dragon crashed down, flailing its tail, scraping the ground with its claws. Cassandra drew its ire, flames spilling around her shield as Adaar and Bull sliced at the tendons wrapped around the Frostback's legs.

Its wings flapped.

A whirlwind.

Dorian grumbled as he leaned back against the force, sending forth is own barrage of frost laden spells, weakening the beast's thick hide.

Their blades cut deep. Drawing blood. For the first time, the dragon felt _pain_.

Bull laughed. With a lift of her head, Cassandra saw why. Adaar had climbed up atop the dragon's back, sinking her blade into the soft flesh into the beast's throat, leveraging the blade between armored plates.

The dragon howled. Collapsed.

Adaar slid from the monster's back, her sword resting triumphantly across her shoulder.

“That was… entirely reckless!”

“It got the job done, didn't it?” Adaar paused. Felt a rumble in her throat.

Bull had the sense to usher the others away. He recognized the look in her eyes, and the way her nostrils flared. Qunari and Vashoth had little in common, but this… Their blood ran true and same.

Adaar stepped closer, brought her nose to the Seeker's neck, to where the dragon's blood had fallen. “You smell good.”

“We...” She faltered as Adaar's lips found a particularly sensitive patch of skin. She told herself that she had tried to pull away, but her hands had found Adaar's sides. “It is dark. We have… strayed far. We should make camp.”

“You're right,” Adaar said, and she squeezed her eyes, blinking away the sweat, attempting, for a moment, to steady herself. “But you will have to give me a moment to collect my bearings.”

Setting up camp became a tedious affair. The makeshift shelters were shoddy. They only barely managed to lift their rations into the trees for the night. When all was said and done, their hands became idle.

“You still smell good,” Adaar said, and she felt Cassandra shift beside her.

“Perhaps I should go clean up, then.”

“No. Don't.” Adaar leaned, kissing her again. “We've set up camp, now.”

_You must tell her. Now._

“Yes… We have.”

“Come on.” She guided them towards the cliff where they had felled the dragon. She gestured toward the water; “Look. Sitting on top of the dragon got me a good view. I thought you might like to see.”

“It is… beautiful.”

Adaar pulled the Seeker close. Kissed her again. “This is your chance. You can walk away.”

Despite everything, Cassandra shook her head. She could not, in the moment, bring herself to do otherwise. No. She ran her hands down her ribs and watched as Adaar shuddered and moaned. __I did this__ _._ _I made her do this._

“ _ _Taarsidath-an halsaam, kadan__ ,” Adaar said.

They fell together. Took from each other. Gave in return. Cassandra hesitated as her hand brushed against the top of Adaar's thigh, but Adaar pulled her close, sinking her teeth into her shoulder and Cassandra _hissed,_ her fingers _plunging_ in _,_ _forceful_ _and strong, curling and pulling._

Adaar moaned and rolled her hips and her voice became broken against the Seeker's shoulder. Helpless. Undone.

She should have told her. She should have stopped. Far too late, now. _Now_ she can only watch as her fingers cause Adaar to _react_.

Adaar licked Cassandra's fingers clean.

“Do you feel better now,” the Seeker said, slowly. Carefully.

“Much.” Adaar turned on her side. “Everyone expects Vashoth to be unintelligible primitives no better than dogs. I spend a great deal of time proving otherwise; no one expects an oxwoman to possess any measure of eloquence. It surprises them, and I find that funny. But as it turns out, a dragon will reduce me into a primitive mess regardless.”

“You certainly turned heads at Halamshiral.”

“Hm,” Adaar murmured, and Cassandra felt the rumble in her chest. “Perhaps next time, you can wear the uniform, kadan.”

Next time.

“You should know,” she said slowly, “that I want impossible things. Sometimes I think these things do not exist, and yet… Still, I hold hope. I have faith that one day it will all be possible. I…” She looked away. Couldn't bare to meet the Vashoth's inquisitive eyes. “I want someone who can sweep me off my feet, who gives me flowers and reads me poetry by candlelight."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"I __want__ the ideal…”

“And I cannot be that person.”

Adaar pulled her arm from Cassandra's waist.

“Perhaps I am being foolish. I do not… want to force my expectations upon you. It would be unfair.” Cassandra leaned back, watched as Adaar reached for her shirt, fumbling with the buttons. “Maker, I __am__ being foolish.”

“You shouldn't have to settle for me, Cassandra.”

“That is not…”

“I don't normally do this. Always thought it would be more trouble than it's worth. Before the Inquisition… A few nights at the whorehouse, and I wouldn't need anything else. I'm out of my depth here, and you shouldn't have to settle,” she said. “You __should__ have the ideal.”

Cassandra sighed, gathering her own clothes out of the grass.

“You don't have to leave, you know,” Adaar said, her face hidden in the dark. “You can stay here, if you want. Just for tonight. I wouldn't hold it against you.”

“No,” she said, and as she pulled her breeches on over legs, she attempted to keep her voice gentle. “We should not make this harder than it already is.”

Cassandra fell out of view, and Adaar flopped down, her head finding purchase on a particularly soft mound of dirt and grass.

Her face remained still, as though her skin had been crafted from stone. She remained still as she examined the stars in the sky.

 

**THE WARDEN'S STORY**

Mahariel wiggled her toes in the grass. Stereotypical, maybe. But she had always loved the feeling of dirt beneath her feet, of foliage brushing against her ankles and toes. The ground's imperfections. She had worn boots during the Blight, of course. Immune to the Blight as they may be, there was still so little known about the joining. Better not to tempt fate. Who knows. To have more darkspawn blood flowing through her veins… It may only work to speed the Calling.

But the Blight had been brought to heel. Twice, at Mahariel's hand, and it had been a comparatively quiet seven years. For now, she could travel as she once had, her feet gripping the earth.

She did wear shoes on occasion, though, at Leliana's instance, though it had never been difficult to convince her to do so. It had become a game between them. Give and take.

She wore shoes into the cities, too, weary of the glares cast down upon her by locals who assumed she was nothing more than a clanless Dalish elf who had wandered too far from the Alienage. They had heard that the Hero of Ferelden was an elf, yes. They would never recognize her in the street.

“It's better this way,” Mahariel had said. “I'd rather not have them falling at my feet.”

But Leliana still noticed how the people distressed her, so she had, one night, surprised her with a gift. A pair of sandals with thin soles and leather straps.

“I know how you like having the ground beneath your feet,” she had said, and Mahariel had held her breath as Leliana gently slipped fastened the straps around her feet. “My nimble elf,” she had said.

So, Mahariel wore shoes into the cities, too.

“What are you thinking of?” Leliana asked, stirring from sleep and watching as Mahariel wiggled her toes in the grass.

“Shoes,” she said.

“Liar.”

“I am. Really.” Mahariel picked at the grass. “I'm happy. It makes me wonder how long the peace will last.”

Taking on the helm of Warden-Commander had come with benefits. She had been forced to take up arms less and less. Instead she trained recruits. Traveled with little classes across Ferelden. Only occasionally did she fight darkspawn once more, and the task had become little more than pruning the herd.

Leliana had insisted at first, that she join her by her side, but Mahariel had been adamant.

“During the Blight… It was necessary,” she had said. “But I won't have you tempt fate any longer.”

And that had been that. They still traveled together, and that quickly became more than enough.

Mahariel fell back at Leliana's side. “I was thinking I should step down.”

“Is that what you want?”

“I have twenty years left. At most. I would rather spend it away from the Blight.” She stroked her chin in thought. “Oghren would make a worthy successor, don't you think?”

“Oghren? Really?” Leliana giggled. “He  _is_ very good at killing darkspawn. I still do not think the Joining made him immune to the Blight. It must be the copious amounts of dwarven ale he consumes.”

“I do worry if Weisshaupt will accept him. Truthfully, I would rather they not appoint someone themselves. I still don't like Clarel.”

“You punched her, love.”

“She was beating around the bush. Do all Orlesian shem act like that?”

“Most do, I'm afraid.”

“I'm glad you found your way to Ferelden, then.”

“As am I.”

Mahariel traced the stars with her eyes, old stories swimming in her head. “Divine Justinia sent another letter, you know.”

“Yes,” she said, sighing. “I spoke with the courier. She requested again that I become her Left Hand. Perhaps if I tell her 'no' in person…”

“You should do it,” Mahariel said.

“I should think not. We talked about this. I am not leaving you.”

“You won't have to.” Mahariel's eyes glimmered. “I meant it when I said I would step down. I'll force poor Oghren down their throats. Half the Wardens in Weisshaupt have waited their entire lives to face down a Blight, but when it finally came, none lifted a single finger while a little elf recruit pulled all their weight.”

“They didn't know,” Leliana teased.

A scoff: “I have noticed this with shemlen. News tends to travel at convenient paces.”

“Yes, I suppose they will have to listen to you, regardless,” said Leliana, chuckling.

“I'll send them a letter. I hate Weisshaupt, and I refuse to step foot in that dreadful keep if I can avoid doing so. I have no more recruits. After we return to Amaranthine, we will go to Val Royeaux.” Mahariel stretched out, the kink in her shoulder finally loose. “Tell me that Dalish story again.”

“That one? You know I feel silly telling you that tale. You know it better than I.”

“And  _you_   _know_ that's not the point. I like hearing you tell it.”

Leliana, as always, could hardly say no. “When Andraste began her Exalted March against the Imperium, the elves joined her cause to fight their masters.”

“Yes! Damn Vints!”

“If you want me to tell you the story, you won't interrupt,” she said, scolding the elf (though she, herself, could not help but smile).

“Go on, vhenan.”

“The great elven leader, Shartan, born in captivity rose up to lead his people. He foresaw a future where the elves were free. Shartan was killed when Andraste was betrayed, but the elves continued to fight eventually breaking free of the Imperium...”

Leliana's voice continued to lilt around the words, and Mahariel remained silent, her ears drinking the story in. They slept. Eager to begin their return to Vigil's Keep the next day.

But…

They were still three weeks from Amaranthine when Mahariel awoke to the song behind her eyes.  _You'll know when the Calling has arrived_ , she had once heard elder Wardens say, and in time, she had repeated those very same words to her own recruits.

Drown it out. Try. Drown it out. Ignore it and perhaps it will go away. But Mahariel knew. The truth.

It was not unheard of for the Calling to come so early, but she had never thought… She had never thought it would come early for  _her._ She knew then what must be done.

But as she looked upon Leliana's face, she knew she could not allow the words to slip past her teeth. She could not bring herself to bear witness to the expression Leliana would wear in response. She could not tell her. She could not. No.

She could not allow her to watch the Calling take her, either.

Better this way.

Their last night together, she asks Leliana to tell her a story of stars and lovers. Leliana, as always, can hardly say no.

They make love, one last time, and only then does Mahariel steal away, leaving Justinia's letter in her place (she will not – she  _cannot –_  leave her without purpose and faith). She does not say goodbye, and though she prays to the old gods, she whispers new words into Leliana's ears, awkward and foreign on her tongue: “In your heart shall burn an unquenchable flame.”

She does not believe, but she believes enough. For her. She does not say goodbye, but she leaves her with enough. For now. She heads not to Vigil's Keep or Val Royeaux, but to the Deep Roads from whence the song is composed.

She is frightened and alone and the ground is cold beneath her feet.

But in the distance, far away, across the Waking Sea, the ground burns as the Chantry of Kirkwall erupts into flames.

* * *

 

**IV.**

**DREAMERS IN THE FADE**

The demon hadn't spoken to her, yet. It hadn't even made an attempt at voicing her fears. Not that anyone could have done anything about anything the demon said. It had been an entirely one-sided conversation so far, though Hawke had attempted to, on multiple occasions, goad the demon into banter. Adaar wondered if the demon would ever get around to her.

Too bad Cole got to her first.

“She wants there to be a next time,” the spirit said.

“Hm.”

“You want there to be a next time, too.” Cole adjusted his hat, pulling it down. “You've never wanted that before.”

“Hm.”

“I am sorry. It is loud in here. Everything is loud here – _I can't be here – I'm not like me – This isn't right – I –_ ”

“--Cole?”

“Yes?”

“If you want to listen to my head, you can. You're making Bull's ass clench.”

“Your head is quiet. Everywhere, there is so much pain. So much hurt. Sometimes it is nice to have quiet.” Cole adjusted his hat again. “Why do you want a next time?”

“I don't know.”

_Because this had been different. Strange._

“You're right,” Cole said. “She is unique. Is that why you don't want to lose her?”

Adaar focused on the Breach ahead. “Yes.”

“But you think that you are not enough.”

“Yes.”

“You are.”

“Did you see that in her head?” Adaar asked, with an almost-laugh.

“I don't need to look in anybody's head to know.”

“Hm.”

“Did I help?”

Adaar looked down on the spirit, catching him in her peripheries. “Yes.”

 

**THE NIGHTINGALE'S STORY**

With most of Skyhold's forces either besieging Adamant or securing supply routes between the keeps, Herald's Rest had become dreadfully empty. Varric hated empty taverns. Empty taverns were quiet, and the quiet, for him, at least, made for bad writing.

But, at least, Isabela had finally begun to stand the idea of sharing the same roof, though she had haughtily insisted (to Cabot's horror) upon painting a thick line across the tavern floor, declaring one side as hers, and the others as his. Varric was also not to have anything else than watered down wine, to which Cabot further objected. Well, he objected until Isabela produced a dagger with the exclamation that she would divide _him_ _,_ too.

Still, he'd call it a win.

And with the general stillness settling around Skyhold, he had seen more than a few irregular patrons sneaking in through the tavern doors. A few scouts. Apprentices. A class of solemn recruits who (to their horror) had been deemed too green to even post guard along the supply lines. Not a boisterous group, but it was nice to see a few fresh faces.

Vivienne, though, back at Skyhold in order to aid Morrigan and Dorian in their effort to rescue the Inquisitor as well as to ensure that the exact proper amounts of lyrium had been marked for delivery to the front, had made a stop at the tavern in order to repossess a bottle of fine cognac she had apparently trusted to Cabot for safekeeping.

And then she had stopped to speak to him. It did not help that he had long ago decided that Vivienne was far more terrifying than even the Arishok.

“My dear,” Madame de Fer had said. “You must tell me when you finish that book of yours. I will require an entire crate, and I expect them all to be signed.”

“You do remember that you're the _villain_.”

“Of course, my dear. If you had made me the _hero_ , I would have been horrified. Although, it would have been amusing to have you in the stockades.”

 _That_ most certainly did not help his writing.

But as surprised as he had been to see Madame de Fer grace the shitty little tavern with her presence, he had most certainly not expected the Left Hand of the Divine to likewise make a presence.

Sera poked him as the color of his face began to match the color of his shirt. “Oi. What's wrong with you? Have a thing for sister, do you?”

“ _No_ ,” he squeaked, and he watched as Leliana walked over to the bar, seating herself several stools to the left of Isabela.

Sera narrowed her eyes. “You know something don't you?”

“Not at all,” he squeaked again. _Maker's breath, he had forgotten he had actually_ known _this about her_.

Leliana motioned to Cabot, and she swiftly ordered a meal. He was just as swift to deliver, too. He gingerly placed the stew and bread before the sister, shrugging at Varric as he walked away. Varric grunted. Last time, Cabot had nearly spilled half his damn stew all over him. He coughed when he caught glimpse of Leliana again. _Maker, I can't stop picturing it_.

“Well, isn't this a surprise?” Isabela said. “I was wondering when you would step off your perch and come visit. Times have changed, haven't they?”

“I actually found myself missing the stew Alistair used to make for us,” Leliana said. “He always tried so hard. Mahariel used to resort to gathering nuts to avoid his cooking. She said if she hadn't been Dalish, she would have died of starvation and the archdemon would have never been killed.”

“We'd have all succumbed to the Blight on account of stew.” Isabela watched as Leliana's eyes began to drift. The Blight. Darkspawn. Corypheus. The Fade… Quickly: “Didn't he nearly faint into Zevran's arms when--”

Leliana coughed (or was it a laugh?); “He didn't speak for three days after we left. He tried once, but he only managed a stutter.”

Varric continued to stare. He should be writing this down. Or something. Anything. Just stop staring. Oh, shit. Look away. Oh, shit. She saw. She's swiveling in her stool. They both are. Shit.

“Close your mouth, Varric, or flies will get in.” Isabela leaned back, clearly enjoying the encounter. “You weren't this prudish the last time we all got together.”

“I didn't actually _know_ Leliana then! I-It's different now!”

Sera splashed ale into Varric's face. “You _do_ know something. Something _big_.”

“He doesn't even known the best bits. Tops. Bottoms. Lips. Fingers.” Isabela smiled. “Did you even know that it was the sister's idea?”

“Have you _been_ back to the Pearl, lately?” Leliana said, interjecting.

(“ _The Pearl?_ ” Sera whispered to Varric. “ _I_ know _that place. One of them brothels! Oh! Oh. Ooooh. Andraste's knickers, no, they_ didn't _. Sister Nightingale, the Hero of Ferelden, and Isabela? Can I tell people? Please”_

“ _No,_ ” Varric whispered back.

“ _You just want to be the one to tell Seeker Fancypants, don't you?_ ”

“ _Maybe_.”)

Isabela shook her head. “Not for a while, no. Hawke met this Tevinter merchant. You would not _believe_ the toys they make up there.”

“You know,” Leliana said, and her expression had become… coy. “Of the three, only the Inquisitor is left.”

Isabela gasped. “You're right. I've never done it with a Qunari before. Maybe if I ask Hawke nicely. Well she'll have to say yes after this shit she just pulled. Could do with a good threesome right about now.”

Leliana's voice became quiet. “You are certain, aren't you? That they're coming back.”

“I thought _you_ were the one who was supposed to, you know, have faith.” Isabela downed half the glass. “She was watching over you, you know. Or did you really think getting delayed back to the Conclave was an accident? Sorry about that by the way. Didn't mean to sink _so_ many boats. Had a bit too much fun.”

“That was you?”

“Well, _she_ hired me, dear. I think she figured I wouldn't say anything. Doesn't matter now, though. Since she's back and all.”

Leliana sighed, shaking my head. “I did know a little. After I built my network, I searched for her. But she always kept one step ahead. For all my resources, I could never find her.”

Isabela shrugged. “Listen. If she's back now, maybe that means she's cured that Grey Warden blight thing. That's what she set out to do, isn't it? She gets back, Hawke gets back, the Inquisitor gets back, we stop the stupid man-god, then we all get to live happily ever after.”

“That is very optimistic.”

“I've been living in Kirkwall, kitten. If we didn't look for the silver lining in things, we would have already cut the damn city off the coast and floated it out to sea for a proper burial _.”_

Leliana nodded as she swallowed a spoonful of the grey slop. Lamb and pea stew, and she smiled as she chewed through the thick and tough sinews of tasteless meat.

 

**THE SLATTERN'S STORY**

As Leliana left, Isabela cursed Hawke. _Look what you've done to me, sweetness. I'm consoling her like we're both_ _wives of soldiers gone off to war_ _. Except you're not a soldier._ _You're the one who's supposed to be waiting around for_ me.

As she ascended the stairs, she eyed the painted line dividing the tavern, pointedly glaring at Varric, too; “Don't. I'll know.”

She pretended not to hear the conversation between Sera and the dwarf flow once more.

“Well, damn,” Sera said. “They ought to tell _that_ story. The Left Hand rubbing bits with the Hero _and_ a pirate.”

She pretended not the hear the conversation as she flopped down onto the floorboards, the alcohol forcing her eyes shut. The darkness swirled over her eyes, and when she opened them once more, her world became washed in green.

Hawke shimmered.

“You're in the Fade,” Isabela said.

“Yes, that does tend to happen, doesn't it?”

“It isn't funny.”

“You seemed to have fun last time. _I like big boats. I cannot lie_.”

“You will never let me live that down, will you?”

“Of course, not. I wouldn't be me if I didn't.”

She approached her but did not touch her. She barely moved as though a single flinch might break the illusion and the dream would dissipate between her fingers.

“I won't forgive you, you know. If you die.”

“Is that so?” She laughed, and the dream – the _Fade –_ becomes bright. “I _'m_ utterly heartbroken.”

“I'm serious. Don't you dare let me down.”

Isabela grabbed hold of herself. It was all she could do. She knew. She knew this wasn't Hawke. A figment of her imagination. An amalgamation of her memories of the woman. At best (or worst, depending on where one stood), the figure before her was a spirit. A spirit from the Fade. A spirit who had seen Hawke. Watched Hawke. A spirit who had become imprinted with that overwhelming personality of _Hawke_.

“It could happen.”

“Stop it.”

“And if it does, if I get lost out here, you have to promise me that you won't do anything stupid either. And you can't come after me.”

“Shut up. I could learn to like the Fade. I could have a dozen spirits worshiping me at my feet.”

Hawke shook her head. “You belong out there.”

“I belong at your side whether you like it or not,” Isabela said. “So I'll do whatever stupid thing I like.”

She pulled forward to kiss Hawke, to squelch any iota of argument the infuriating woman might make. She hadn't been wrong; the dream slipped through her fingers, and she awoke with nothing more than a kink in her neck.

She made her way out into the courtyard. _I could steal something out of the coffers. Or a duel. A duel would be fun. Cullen's here, isn't he? Could make something happen there._

_Or…_

Seeker Pentaghast nearly stumbled over her own feet when she saw Isabela. She clutched the novel to her chest.

“You're reading _Tale of the Champion_ _,_ are you?”

The Seeker was furious. Or awestruck. She couldn't tell the difference. Awfully tight though. Wound up. Compressed. Like overextended elastic.

“You remind me of Aveline,” Isabela said. “That isn't a compliment.”

“Coming from you I don't believe it is.”

“So I take it you've read the book before.”

Cassandra had spent a great deal of time thinking of the torrid romance that had taken place between Hawke and Isabela. How could she not? Isabela returning with the Qunari relic in tow. Hawke dueling the Arishok on Isabela's behalf. Varric had told the story, and Cassandra had found the story to be… entirely romantic.

“Did you enjoy chapter twelve?” Isabela said (Aveline certainly hadn't).

“Excuse me?”

“Judging by your expression, I'd say you did.” Isabela tapped her chin. “I wrote that bit, you know.”

“You what?”

“I slipped it in after Varric sent the manuscript off. His editor liked it so much, Varric couldn't have it taken out.”

“And Hawke… approved?”

“I'm sorry, _have_ you read the book? We ended up acting the scene out the day it published. I think all of the Hanged Man heard that one… Oh, don't be such a prude, princess.”

“ _What?_ ” Cassandra made a noise, shoving Isabela aside, abandoning the book in order to commence violently assaulting the yard's training dummies. “ _I am not a princess_.”

Isabela leaned back, pleased with her work.

 _There you go, goose._ _Not as fun without you._ _It was_ always _about you._

 

**THE SEEKER'S STORY**

She thought it would comfort her to remember that the Champion of Kirkwall was now by the Inquisitor's side, and that their combined might would undoubtedly pave the way to success. And to safety. To Adaar's safety. Opening the book, however, had only served to lure the Rivaini pirate to her corner of the courtyard.

She resigned herself to hitting things.

Leliana approached her from behind, tapping her lightly on the shoulder. _Maker_. Cassandra swung her sword on reflex, relaxing upon realizing that it had been the Left Hand who had approached her.

Leliana had dodged the swing easily.

Cassandra grunted. “Must everyone insist on bothering me today?”

“A relationship with a Warden can be very bittersweet,” Leliana said, ignoring Cassandra and leaning on the training dummy. “Most do not even try.”

“Will you get to the point?”

“Have patience, Cassandra,” Leliana tutted. “To be honest, I thought the Warden only tolerated me. She always seemed to prefer spending time with her dog, and she had already suffered so much. But she always took the time to talk to us all. I… appreciated that. I wanted to find a way to tell her--”

“--And you did. Yes. We all know this.”

“ _Cassandra_.” Leliana's glare became hard and sharp, quickly silencing her before her own voice returned to its lilted soprano. “Now where was I? Yes. I stuttered over my words like an ill-educated peasant girl. She let me ramble on and on and eventually she merely looks at me and says 'Good. I have always wanted to be more than friends.' Just like that. Maker, I was so embarrassed.

(Cassandra briefly entertained the idea of once again attempting to bring the story to a close but just as quickly decided she liked her fingers).

“We kissed that night. Or, she kissed me. Alistair pulled me aside the next day. He warned me about the Joining. He told me that our days would be numbered. I didn't care. It didn't seem to matter at the time, even with the Blight all around us as a reminder. I loved her.

“Of course, I did not learn until later that Alistair had come to love her, too. Still, he was not wrong. It as not a perfect romance; you are well aware that we have been apart for many years.” She sighed. “Tales are carefully designed, Cassandra. They portray the ideal because they are meant to.”

“I am in no mood for lectures.”

“Then advice. My romance with the Warden has been most imperfect, but even now, I would not have traded it for anything. It was real. No masks.”

Cassandra stilled her tongue. She still held little patience for what she believed to be a lecture. And yet…

“Thank you,” she said. “And I am sorry. This must be difficult for you.”

Leliana tsked; “I have no need for pity,” she said (she could still taste the stew on her tongue). “It has not been ideal, but she has returned to me. That is all that matters.”

Cassandra hit the dummy again, perhaps now with less fervor. _Damn these interruptions_.

Sighing, she relented. She had become too restless to even stand still long enough to swing her sword against the dummy never mind an honest attempt in beating the damn thing into submission as she was normally wont to do when caught in such a mood.

So she wandered (if wandering could be called _storming_ ), and it wasn't long before she found herself descending once again into Skyhold's unoccupied dungeon.

She hadn't expected to find piles of torn pages littering the dungeon floor, and she certainly hadn't expected to find stacks of crates, each bearing the stamp of Val Royeaux.

She uncrumpled the first page. Then the second. Third. Fourth. Fifth. Scribbles and scratch marks and pools of ink where Adaar had pressed too hard. Disjointed words. Crossed out. More disjointed words. Crossed out again. Again and again until each page had been filled, crumpled, and tossed aside.

It was poetry, awful at its very core. In fact, Cassandra could not remember the last time she had been witness to such a tragic affront to writing. But it as not so much as what the words meant so much as it was how the words were written. Unsteady. Foreceful. Mangled.

She ran a finger over the candles, too. _Candles?_ _Why would Adaar purchase--? Candles? They smell of… Rose petals. Rose petals?_ Rose _petals?_

She imagined how it must have appeared; the oversized Vashoth towering over an Orlesian merchant demanding that he hand over a set of candles, the exchange becoming a rituale as she carefully stockpiled the collection over the course of a few short months.

She closed her eyes and wondered if, one day, Varric would ever write about this. If he _could_ ever write about this.

“ _ _Taarsidath-an halsaam.__ ”

“ _Perhaps_ next time _, you can wear the uniform, kadan_.”

“ _You don't have to leave, you know. You can stay here, if you want. Just for tonight. I wouldn't hold it against you.”_

An imperfect romance.

* * *

  

**V.**

**IN MY ARMS LIES ETERNITY**

The Inquisition's army trudged through the mountains back to Skyhold, each soldier's pace quickening as the fortress appeared over the horizon, the promise of beds, clean feet, and hot food becoming clearer and clearer in their minds. By the time the triumphant party reached the keep's gates, they had all nearly fallen into a light jog.

"I think I prefer this realm," Hawke said. "Though I'll admit the Fade had a nice little glow to it."

Adaar made a noise of acknowledgment, the edge of her lip twitching into a near imperceptible smile. She gestured her head towards Skyhold's open gates; "I think someone's here to see you, Champion."

“Isabela? What are you doing here?"

With a jerk, Isabela ripped Hawke down from her horse, and, rather unceremoniously, she fell, legs flailing in the air. Soldiers shifted in their boots, digging divots into the earth and attempting to at least appear as though they were looking elsewhere. Varric winced.

A sheepish smile. A quick flick of mud off her armor. Hawke looked back towards Adaar; "How about you open another rift beneath us? I think I'd like to go back to the Fade now."

"This isn't funny," Isabela said.

"I suppose I should've written you a note..."

"Oh really?"

"Don't get mad, but... I really was going to get around to it. I may have forgotten to, well, actually send it."

"By Andraste's flaming tits!" Isabela grabbed Hawke by the collar and began to drag her (again rather unceremoniously) through Skyhold's gates. "I don't have the words to express even half of what I'm feeling right now, so I'm just going to have to show you with sex."

Varric snuck a glance of Josephine's lost expression. "So, Ruffles." he said. "You got a spin for this one yet?"

"Not at all."

"Well think of one quick. It's about to get very loud, very soon."

He laughed as Josephine paled.

Adaar passed the reins of the bog beast to Cole, seeing as though no one else would even touch the creature. Not even Dennett. Cassandra brushed past the spirit, and she caught his deliberate whispers:

"She does feel. In her own way. Emotions muted barring the ancient blood. Barring the easy rage. A constant struggle to understand how others must feel. To understand why. So she comes to me. Observes. Thinks I cannot grasp her mind as I do others. There are no words to describe it, but I understand now. She does feel. In her own way. For you." Cole smiled, and his next words are simple. “You are like a dragon.”

Then, he became gone, in that way he so often disappears, leading the animal as he coaxed it into a gentle gait.

Cassandra played the words over in her head. She grappled with the words. Sparred with them... And as the words tumbled through her, she approached Adaar. As the distance closed, she felt as though the air had grown thicker, clogging her insides.

"Inquisitor," she said. Maybe the air _had_ grown thicker. "A word?"

They left, disappearing behind a door, and no one noticed the way Leliana had already slipped into the crowd as she adjusted her cloak, smoothing out the little wrinkles and brushing away neglected specks of dust. Her heart skipped a beat as the glint of armor, silver and blue, reached her eyes. The ground beneath her feet was warm, and she could feel each stone, solid and real, through the soles.

But… Alistair could not meet her eyes. He dismounted. Fiddled with the hilt of his sword. Clenched his fist tight through the narcotic silence. He could not meet her eyes.

“I'm… I'm so sorry.”

 

**VALO-KAS**

Adaar followed the tense woman into the barn, tentatively and with tired eyes narrow. Her eyes narrowed even further as Cassandra led them away from Skyhold's main hall and towards the dungeons. She watched as the muscles in Cassandra's back twitched with the pressure, but once alone, the tension fell away like slow broiled meat off bone.

Adaar eyed the door to the next room, to the open air and waterfall. She tried not to think about the crates of candles she should have pushed over into the water.

Cassandra paid little mind; it didn't take long for her to begin to fuss (in a way few ever could even imagine her do) over Adaar until she ghosted a finger over the open wound adorning her torso.

"Didn't any one see to you in Adamant?"

"I'm fine."

"It's deep." Cassandra began to clean the wound, despite Adaar's attempts to shove her away. "It could get infected."

"I'm Vashoth."

"That cannot be your response to everything."

"We're not a fragile species."

"But you can still _die_."

"Right. Because then you'd have to find someone else with a glowing green hand." Adaar finally found success in grabbing the needle away from between Cassandra's fingers, and she continued to stitch herself back together, haphazardly pinching the skin. She trained her eyes away from the Seeker. “I brought Hawke back. You have your Champion of Kirkwall. You have your Inquisitor."

Cassandra dropped the roll of fabric she would have used to bandage the wound. “Is that what you really think? That I do not care for you?”

“What you're doing right now with me isn't real.” (But I want it to be). “You need me to close rifts, and now you need me to stop Corypheus, too.” (I won't admit that I don't mind). “You need me, so you've decided to humor me. It's what I would do.” (But not to you. Can't lose you). “You can't hurt what I don't have.”

Cassandra made a disgusted noise. “You are an idiot.”

“Excuse me?”

“If,” she said, grabbing Adaar's hand, “I could cut this mark from your skin, I would. If I could force Hawke to become the Inquisitor, I would.” She could hardly believe the words spilling from her own mouth… She averted her eyes in shame. “If you die saving this world, nothing will matter.. For me, the world will have ended regardless.”

Adaar lifted her head, meeting Cassandra's eyes for the first time since she had returned. “What are you saying?”

Cassandra made another disgusted noise. “Can you not just…?” She grabbed Adaar's arm, pulling her into the next room, and… The candles had been unboxed, the crumbled papers smoothed out and stacked into a neat little pile. “Did you think I would not notice?”

“Yes?”

“You are incorrigable.” Cassandra sighed, and she found she could not place when it was that she had grabbed Adaar's hand or when it was that Adaar had allowed her to do so. “Everything. From before. I take it back. When you asked that night, I should have stayed.” Her voice became tentative. "Can I kiss you?"

"No."

"No?" Cassandra furrowed her brow, the rejection burning through her chest.  _She should have known.This was a mistake. She shouldn't have..._

"It would kill you,'' Adaar said, and she pointed at her lips. "I haven't removed my vitaar."

"You..." Cassandra sputtered. "You say these things only to provoke me!"

Adaar smirked, slowly wiping away the poisonous paint as Cassandra nearly  _growled_ , impatient.

 _They surged together_. A kiss. Awkward and clumsy but perfect. The dragon's blood ignited in her veins. Hard to breathe. A frenzy through her mind. Confusion. Familiarity. All of it all at once.

She rested her forehead against Cassandra's, her neck hunched over, her shoulders tense. Unsure.

Cassandra pulled back, her hand brushing over those shoulders, her back. She raised an eyebrow as she prodded at the overstuffed pouch hanging from Adaar's waist.

Adaar cleared her throat as she revealed the book, averting her eyes as Cassandra flipped through the pages.

“This is poetry,” she whispered, as though Adaar might have (somehow) not noticed.

“Yes, well, I wanted to see if I could perhaps be… less inadequate.”

“That pouch is for food.”

Adaar shrugged. “Hawke had enough. She eats like a fat Orlesian noble.”

“This… also has blood on it.”

“Not mine. I may have fought off a horde of bandits for it.”

“A horde?”

“Well, three. But I have been told that exaggerations can be romantic.” Adaar pulled the book away her thumb searching for the dog-eared page, the memory of the kiss still warm on her lips. “I can show you what I've learned.”

“Oh?”

The Vashoth smirked. “ _On aching branch do blossoms grow, the wind a hallowed breath. It carries the scent of honeysuckkle..._ ” She leaned forward; “… _sweet as the lover's kiss_.” Cassandra rolled her eyes as she shoved her. “ _It brings the promise of more tomorrows, of sighs and whispered bliss_.” Adaar fell to one knee before the Seeker.

“You can't be serious,” she deadpanned.

“You could have done better?”

Cassandra pulled Adaar to her feet. “You bought candles that have ' _The Most Romantic Candles in all of Thedas_ ' carved across the bottom.”

“Would you have preferred the least romantic candles in all of Thedas?”

“They should not need to declare that they are the most romantic,” Cassandra said.

“It seems you will have to educate me, then, on matters of romance,” Adaar replied, and when a small smile touched the Seeker's lips, she surged forward once more. Another clumsy kiss. “You need to know, kadan. I can't promise that I can be everything you want. The romance and the flowers and the poetry… But I want to be, and I can only promise that I'll try.” Adaar paused. “I know you want me to sweep you off your feet...”

“You already have.”

They settled together, on the bedroll, together looking up at the stars as they once had on a very different night.

“ _Kadan_ ,” Cassandra said. “What does that mean?”

“'Where the heart lies.' But I find the term inadequate. I don't have a heart.” Adaar silenced Cassandra before she could protest. “You are the passion that has been stolen from me. You are my heart.”

Cassandra flushed. Perhaps it was the fact that Adaar remained so infuriatingly _clueless_ regarding the romance behind the gesture that made her all the more… endearing. She nearly scoffed at her own thought.

“And before. You said ' _ _Taarsidath-an halsaam.__ _'”_

_“It means, 'I will bring myself sexual pleasure later, while thinking about this with great respect.'”_

“All that?” Cassandra laughed. “You say that when we are fighting dragons, too.”

Adaar leaned towards the Seeker again; “ _ _Taarsidath-an halsaam,__ _ _kadan__ _._ ”

 

**NO REST FOR THE WICKED**

At the sight of the Rivaini pirate, Hawke pulled herself up, leaning her back against the bed's headboard.

“You're back.”

Isabela tossed a fig roll towards Hawke, taking a swig of her own pilfered treat. “I figured you might need an energy boost after that ride.”

“Well, while you're up, check my armor.”

“Not one of your best lines, sweetness.” But Isabela fingered through the pieces of discarded armor regardless, her fingers retrieving a folded piece of paper. “What's this?”

“Proof.”

“ _Isab_ _e_ _l_ _a,”_ she read, unfolding the note. “ _Off to stop the Wardens. Will be back soon. Hawke._ ”

“I really did just forget. I didn't realize I hadn't sent it until I was already at Adamant. Then it got just a tad busy.”

“This is hardly much of a letter.”

“Yes, well, if I had known the Inquisitor would drop us into the Fade, I would have written you a ballad.”

“One of these days, I'll just have to cuff you to my wrist. Keep you from running off.”

“I thought we didn't believe in tying ourselves down.”

Isabela rolled her eyes. “Still on that, are you?”

“I _am_ amenable to those cuffs.”

“Look at you, sweet thing. So eager to submit to the Admiral. But…”

“But? Oh, I know that look. What have you been up to?”

“I may have _seen_ a few things.”

“You haven't been spying, have you?” Hawke shook her head. “So, who is it?”

“Our dear Inquisitor.”

“ _Isabela_ _,_ ” Hawke said, rather cheekily. “Is that any way to repay the Inquisition's gracious hospitality?”

“I didn't even get to the best part.”

“You didn't attempt to join in, did you?”

Isabela smiled widely, altogether proud of herself. “I think the Seeker might have killed me if I had. She's more wound up than the battering ram. Well, maybe not _now_.”

“You're kidding.”

“It was quite the view.” Isabela became positively scandalous. “The good Seeker. On her knees. Her head stuffed between the Inquisitor's legs.”

“Just how long were you there?” Hawke said, reprimanding the pirate.

Isabela smirked. “Not long enough, I'd say. You should be proud. Imagine the effort it took to tear myself away to get back to you.”

“Well, aren't I lucky.”

“I couldn't let you miss out, sweetness.”

“I'm not going to spy on the Inquisitor.”

“Are you telling me you've seen a Nevarran princess sitting on a Qunari's face? Because I certainly haven't.”

Hawke's voice became quiet. “Really?”

“I was right, wasn't I? You want to go take a peek.”

Hawke sighed, giving in. “You had me at _princess_ , _sitting_ , and _face_.”

“Not the Qunari bit?”

Hawke coughed as Isabela yanked her out of the room, their hands (though neither would ever admit it aloud) tangled together, the pads of their fingers, numb on account of the cold night air, finding soft and gentle purchase against each other's skin.

 

**VIR'LATH SA'VUNIN**

Cole smiled himself as he finished tending to the creatures too strange for Dennett to want to even bother with in the slightest. Talk to Adaar later. She will want to talk. Not about the Seeker but around her. A long way to go still. But a start. Other concerns now. More pressing. Cole made his way away from the stables, a slice of lyrium cradled in his hand. He followed Leliana into the Rookery and found her between books and crows and Morrigan. Leliana did not raise her voice.

“There is no reason why you should not be able to do this.”

“It is not that simple.” The knot between Morrigan's shoulders had tightened, and it had not been this tight since she had first learned of Flemeth's true intentions. “We would not even be in the right place.”

“Then we take the mirror to Adamant. The fortress is ours.”

“You would have us hand deliver the Fade to Corypheus.”

“We can protect it.”

Morrigan grabbed Leliana's arm. “She would want us to stop Corypheus.”

“You don't know that.”

“ _Yes_ , I do.”

Leliana's voice breaks for the first time. She can nearly hear Mahariel, almost, calling out through the Veil, whispering the same words and small comforts she had always whispered.

“ _I'm Dalish_ ,” Mahariel would say. “ _It had to be me. Some_ _one_ _else might have gotten it wrong._ ”

“ _We will win, vhenan. There is no need to doubt._ ”

“ _The villa by the Waking Sea. Think of it, and do not doubt, because we will win. We will raise nugs and mabari hounds._ ”

“ _Have I ever lost, vhenan?_ ”

The words were nearly llike lullabies, echoing through Leliana's ears, and she knew that entire minutes must have passed by the way Morrigan stared.

“No,” Leliana said. “You don't know.”

“She would have wanted for you to live. I do know that much. I have always found your notions of love and faith to be entirely grotesque, but she confided in me and _she would have wanted you to live_.”

Leliana closed her eyes, terrified that the whispers might disappear, gently and without warning. “She left. She does not get to decide. If you will not help me, Morrigan, I will find someone who will.”

Day became night, and Morrigan retreated, left alone to mourn her friend, silently shedding tears as she hugs Kieran, for though Alistair had been the boy's father, without the Warden, she would have never had a _son_.

Cole stepped forward into the darkness of the Rookery, his face illuminated by the stone he cradled in his hands.

“I do not need you to read my mind,” she said.

“No,” Cole said, “you do not. But I can still help.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“I made the lyrium remember. I can make her sing again. For you.”

* * *

 

**HERE LIES THE ABYSS**

“I'll stay,” Hawke says. “We need the Hero of Ferelden. _She_ can rebuild the Wardens. Me? I'm just a nobody who happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. Many times.”

Mahariel shakes her head. “We all were in a sense. But you are ultimately right, and it is precisely for this reason you must leave with the Inquisitor. I have a duty. You have a life.”

“ _I can stay_ ,” Hawke says again.

“Inquisitor.”

Adaar nods her head towards Mahariel. The decision is made. The decision, between them both, has already been made for a very long time.

Mahariel tightens her fingers around her daggers, the hilts already slick with blood, her mind already plotting the strikes she will lay upon the beast. She doesn't notice Cole, to the side, clutching a slice of rock. She turns to Adaar, and for the first time in many years her voice is desperate:

“Tell Leliana I'm sorry. I was not there for her. I left her without a single word and _still_ I could not find a way. Through all of this I have been selfish… And after everything, she deserves to know: I never said goodbye because I never wanted our story to end. I never want this story to end. But _she_ has always kept our story _alive_ , and in that, I can find peace.”

 

_In War, Victory._

_In Peace, Vigilance._

_In Death, Solace._

**Author's Note:**

> *prepares fancy soap box*
> 
> (There may be several spoilers here so move on, I guess. None of the below really matters).
> 
> So, a lot of thoughts here. First, after DA2, I felt like it was a weird step backwards to suddenly not let everyone boink the brains out of everyone else. As much as I loved Dorian's personal quest (and Dorian as a character), it kind of felt out of place. Like, I get it. Tevinter sucks massive donkey dick. On the plus side, there were no weird accidental romances (I'm fucking looking at you, Alistair, get off my Warden. You too, Kelly Chambers. FemShep likes aliens).
> 
> Anyway, depending on your choices, the decision you have to make at the end of Here Lies the Abyss isn't all that difficult. The first time I played the mission, I just nonchalantly threw Stroud at the demon. I mean, I knew him for all of five seconds, DA2 and DA:I combined. My second playthrough, I laughed as I threw Loghain into the Fade. Now, trying to decide between Alistair and Hawke? That was a little harder, but despite my brief hesitation, Alistair still faced off against the giant disgusting spider, leaving his old god darkspawn baby fatherless. So, the mission was cool, but decision-wise, I still felt it fell short of trying to (for instance) choose between Mordin and Wrex. It just didn't hold the same gravity.
> 
> So, in short, this whole thing came about because I thought it would be a much more interesting decision if BioWare had forced us to choose between our Warden and Hawke. It's the kind of decision that makes you sit down and write an oversized one-shot.
> 
> I also think BioWare missed out on some golden opportunities here. Like, hello? Leliana seemed awfully calm regarding this whole Morrigan, daughter of Flemeth, is sitting in the middle of Skyhold with her creepy old god kid. Also, why in the goddamn hell has Leliana not commented on Morrigan's dress during the ball?! She spent half of DA:O trying to get her to wear something like that! You would think she might have one semi-snarky remark. And no conversation between Alistair and Leliana? Hey? Remember that WHOLE YEAR we spent ending the Fifth Blight? No? Okay. No big deal. Lastly, how can literally no one comment on the fact that Varric has written SMUT about AVELINE?! I mean come on...
> 
> Well, thanks for reading, anyway. If the demand is high enough, I might be convinced to do one (or more) of three things: 1) continue a few tales within this world (I have ideas after Jaws of Hakkon and Trespasser), 2) write alternate endings in which either Hawke or the Inquisitor fall victim to the nightmare demon, and 3) if you ask REALLY nicely write something similar for your particular Warden/Hawke/Inquisitor combo with your own ideal ending (or, for maximum pain, you can let me choose).


End file.
